


Demangent

by Ducks, vatrixsta



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/M, Mardi Gras, New Orleans, Smut-smutty-smut-smut, Vatrixsta/Ducks Smut, classic B/A
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 91,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7787317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ducks/pseuds/Ducks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vatrixsta/pseuds/vatrixsta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember in Vatrixsta's "Glimpse" and Ducks' "Perfect Happiness", how Buffy and Angel make reference to the "fun" they had in New Orleans?  Well... here's the story of what happened.  Our beloved heroes are mysteriously brought together to fight a particularly heinous evil during Mardi Gras, and... well... stuff happens that they just weren't expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Glimpse](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/224158) by Vatrixsta. 
  * Inspired by [Perfect Happiness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7787167) by [Ducks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ducks/pseuds/Ducks). 



> BE ADVISED: This work is unfinished, and will perpetually remain so. V and I wrote it during a particular time, when we had a particular view of the characters, and unfortunately, that time is long past. We really still love the story, and get questions and comments about it from time to time, so we thought we'd post it here at AO3 for posterity.
> 
> Plus, we think it's pretty hot.
> 
> We decided to pretend "The Gift" never happened, because that opens a whole new can of GWA (gut-wrenching angst) that we just didn't want to waste time with. Hell, the plot is really just a skeleton to hang the smut on anyway. ;)
> 
> "Demangent" is French for "Itch". You'll see why. *G*
> 
> NOTE3: "Demangent" is French for "Itch". You'll see why. *G*
> 
> Please be advised that this is FUTURE fic. Dawn is 17-18 years old. We thought a S/D Future pairing would be fun, and cause lots of controversy among the Scoobs. There is nothing explicit, and it is mostly used for Ha value, so please, if this squicks you, we suggest you skip it. Flames regarding the matter will be ignored, as in our universe, Spike is fully tamed. We do NOT, however, advocate such a relationship on the shows.
> 
> We tried to be as accurate as possible regarding the layout and sights of New Orleans. But we may have taken a *little* bit of artistic license, as neither of us have been in the city's sewers. *G*

_"I got the ways and means_  
to New Orleans   
I'm going down by the river  
where it's warm and green  
I'm gonna have drink, and walk around  
I got a lot to think about oh yeah" 

\- "Bloodletting - The Vampire Song" by Concrete Blonde

~

Prologue - New Orleans, Louisiana, March, 2004

He set the goblet of fresh-spilled chicken blood on the altar before him, and tossed the last carcass aside. That done, he began to chant in an archaic French-Yaruban dialect that hadn't passed lips in some two centuries, preparing the air of his home for the annual Feasting.

"The Big Easy" had been his hunting ground since long before it was ever named such, and he was satisfied to live out the rest of his nearly immortal life in its mossy, jazz tickled streets. The feeding was better here than anywhere else in the world, he liked to think, although he had heard tell from others of his kind that Brazil's Carnivale and New York City's New Years Eve celebrations were nearly as good. But once the Beltane fires of Ireland had been extinguished for the last time, he had come here, and he had no interest in leaving the Mississippi Delta. Its current and the spicy blood of its people had filled his cells for far too long.

And each year, the hunt got sweeter. Each year, the herds of humans were bigger, their repression and denial more fierce... and their passion more explosive when at last it was released. They came here to set down their burdens, to let loose their everyday Puritan tethers, and from that, he was fully sated.

But a shaft of light breaking the smoky shadows of his lair broke the easy, familiar rhythm of the chant. There were no sources of such light down here, in the bowels of the earth, where only darkness lived.

He paused to stare at the light in fear. 200 Mardi Gras, and never had such a thing happened before.

Then... The Light spoke.

"It is harvest," it intoned regally, "The dawning of spring, when creatures mate."

He blinked at it, but said nothing in reply.

"This new millennium will bring the greatest warriors of our Army to your home," The Light went on.

He finally found a word, and immediately used it before it could vanish again. 

"Who?"

"You will know them. Their scent... their auras are unmistakable. You will feed them, and they, in return, will feed you."

He gaped at the Light in confusion and befuddlement. He knew the voice of the Gods when he heard it..., which was very rarely, and only then when he had ingested one too many drunken college boys or defrocked nuns.

They had certainly never lowered themselves to comment on his feeding habits before.

"Baaa," the goat at his feet objected. He stared down at it, too, before once again turning fearful eyes to The Light.

"Why do you care who I devour?" he asked cheekily.

The Light was silent for a moment, as though carefully considering its answer... or perhaps whether or not it should smite him for his insolence.

"They must learn. You must show them. They are facilement découragé . . .*very* easily discouraged. Too easily. They and their tribe must be shown the way."

He nodded absently at the Light... though he didn't know if it could actually *see* him, and also had no idea what it was talking about. "But... how will I know them?"

"They will come with their tribe, from the Sunset Coast. You will know them. And if you do this and succeed, a finer feast you will never have in your eternity."

His mouth watered. His stomachs clenched tightly, and gurgled. What argument could he give to a promise of such a Godly Feast?

"All right. I will call to them."

"They will resist you. You must be prepared for their strength. Come closer, and I will tell you their story."

He took an involuntary step into The Light, and The Light filled his head with visions. Then, it began:

"Since the dawn of man, there have been vampires. And as long as there have been vampires, there has been a Slayer... the Chosen One . . ."

~


	2. Buffy: "The Tao of Angel Missage"

"How far away is this hotel? Are we lost? Does it count as drinking if I have some of those beads?"

"We'll be there in a minute. We are not lost. You are not drinking ANYTHING resembling an alcoholic beverage."

"Xander's still in that voodoo shop. Why did he go into a voodoo shop, anyway? Hellmouth not creepy enough for him?"

"I don't know, Dawn."

"Geez, what bug crawled up your butt?"

"Damn it, Dawn, could you please just shut up for two seconds?!"

"Sure. Nice to know your chosen status comes complete with Slayer Strength Hormones during a certain time of the month!"

As Dawn stalks into the shop Xander disappeared into a few minutes ago, I take a moment to concede that I haven't been very nice or patient with my sister over the past three days. Giles says it's natural I'd still be a little raw. My little sister turned seventeen last week, and her birthday's were turning out to be as cursed as mine were. She'd been taken hostage by some kind of slimy demon-y thing with a name only Giles can pronounce. I almost lost her -- big, real, final death type almost. Dawn and I were both allowed to be a little raw around the edges, still.

What Giles doesn't know is that Dawn's near-death experience is only partly to blame for my edginess.

I've been thinking about my mom lately. More, even, than I did just after she died.

I miss her. That's such an inadequate way to describe how I feel about her being gone. Gone. Forever not here with us. I rejected the finality of it for a long time before the eventual acceptance rolled over me.

Just for the record, I hate the word acceptance in all of its forms. I hate the idea that I have to 'accept' that my father is too busy acting like a little boy, out playing house with his secretary, to give a shit about Dawn and I. I hate that I have to 'accept' that I wasn't really fair to Riley; that I pushed him away, broke a good man's heart, and drove him to vampire hookers because I was so emotionally closed off with him.

I hate that I've only had one real date since then, and that was only because Willow pushed the guy on me. I hate that I had to accept that my sister came from a ball of energy; that she *was* a ball of energy, given human form.

I hate that Willow and Tara and Xander and Anya are so happy together. I hate that Anya's been planning their wedding for three years. I even hate myself for begrudging my friends -- my sweet, wonderful friends who've dedicated their lives to a fight that should be only mine -- anything.

And I fucking *hate* that Angel left me for my own good.

Last weekend I was stretched out on my bed, flipping through a magazine, and I saw a male model dressed all in black, leather pants, long trench and all. He bore a passing resemblance to Angel. Despite what Willow might occasionally worry about, I don't still see him everywhere. In fact, since that last time at the Bronze during Freshman year, I haven't seen him anywhere he wasn't actually standing.

Saturday afternoon, though, I saw him in that magazine. He stared up at me, being all two-dimensional, sex-on-paper hot, and I swear, I felt a tingly sensation in my belly.

After being completely hypnotized by Angel's eyes, of his gaze staring up at me from a Calvin Klein ad, of subconsciously fantasizing about riding him when he's encased in leather, I snapped out of it. I realized what had just taken place. And I truly, in my heart of hearts, feared for my own sanity.

Needless to say, the magazine ended up on the other side of the room. That wasn't enough, though, so I took a page from Dawn's freak-out book and burned it. As the flames licked around the pages of Cosmo in my little metal wastebasket, I contemplated how much fire seemed to symbolize different things in my life, thus bringing on the age old 'men Buffy has loved and lost' debate.

Angel consumed me, burned me alive, and I loved every minute of it. He spread through my world like someone poured gasoline on us, and I was ready to be consumed a thousand times. I worried, sometimes, about whether I was fit to be a Slayer. Surely, wanting a vampire like I did, aching for him ((and not just a quick tumble, either -- I wanted all of him, lips, arms, cock, fangs, soul, especially his soul)) like I did ((do)) had to mean there was some kind of short-circuit in my Primal Slayer Mechanism.

With Riley, it was me who spread through his life. And he wanted to be consumed by me, or so he said a hundred times. The problem was, I never wanted to consume him. All I wanted was someone to be there when I needed him; a guy to keep my bed warm at night, to fuck me into oblivion when I needed to stop thinking, someone to hold hands with at the movies when I went out with my happily coupled friends.

Honestly, I didn't even realize it until Mom got sick. It never occurred to methat I didn't love Riley. It still doesn't quite gel, all these years later. I guess I can't really believe I spent over a year with someone, spent large chunks of my life with someone, without actually being in love with them. Riley certainly believed it. And then he left, and now I'm alone, with my dead mother and my fake sister and my worried Watcher and my happy friends.

It's really not as dire as it sounds. I'm just having a crappy week. Month. Year. Whatever. And I'm dwelling.

Anyway, the magazine is burning, I'm reflecting on everything that's happened to me since the day I was called, and I realize that my love life follows one of two patterns:

I sleep with a guy, he turns cold and evil the next morning, and I'm left heartbroken and alone.

Or . . .

I sleep with a guy, he turns eternally devoted, loves me with his whole heart, then ends up leaving me because he thinks he knows what's going on inside my head.

Bonus: With Angel, I got both deals in one gloriously, beautifully, stupidly noble package.

The end result remains achingly the same. Man leaves Buffy. Buffy saves world despite her pain. Buffy eats entire gallon of cookie dough fudge mint chip without assistance.

When I consider the fact that I've eaten more ice cream over the last six years than any one person has a right to consume, I don't care that I hurt Riley, or that I miss Angel. Sometimes, it doesn't gel that Angel and I are close, without it being awkward; that we've been close since that night he came and held me near my mother's grave, and shared what I've begun to dread was our last kiss.

And actually, that wasn't even when the closeness became closeness. It began there, but it cemented the night I had that dream, and I got over myself for five minutes, picked up the phone, and called him.

He's been sweet and supportive and everything a friend is supposed to be, and right now, if I saw him, I'd probably punch him in the nose. Right before I jumped him, and damn the consequences.

I'm really edgy lately.

Time for a rapid-fire subject change.

Angel's last letter was like all the others; filled with the minutiae ((an Angel word, written in one of said letters)) that made up his day-to-day. Cordelia's latest audition disaster, Wesley's newest book-geek acquisition, Gunn's cool new fighting axe, Kate's first official outing since joining the team . . .

We've done something William the Bloody over there claimed we'd never be able to. We've become friends. Angel is my BEST friend, but don't EVER let Willow hear me say that. The only thing that ever gives me a tiny moment of pause . . . is the fact that I don't think we're JUST friends. But that fact is easily ignored as I let him listen to me gripe in his easy, Angel-y way. It's so easy to believe he's just my big rock of understanding when I pour out my soul with AT&T footing the bill.

It's not just me leaning on him, either. He calls me sometimes, writes to me. He asks me to bring Dawn for visits. The whole gang drove up for Christmas this year, and let me tell you, you have NEVER decorated for the holidays until you do it at the Hyperion Hotel. It took fourteen people two days (and in Spike's case, only working for twenty minutes, and only because Dawn pouted at him) to deck its halls from top to bottom.

Angel bought me a Christmas present. He hadn't done that since before he left Sunnydale, but this year, he did it. I bought him something stupid. The gang had driven to the coast for Spring Break, and I gave Angel a picture of us, decked out in the sun, making 'grrr' faces. I almost chickened out twice and didn't give it to him, but I hadn't brought anything else, and I'd already seen the little box beneath the tree To: Buffy From: Angel.

There was a pair of earrings in the box. They were sterling silver stakes, delicate little dangly things with halos on top of them. He said when I wore them, I'd know he was always watching out for me, even if he wasn't *with* me. That made him feel better, he said.

Yeah, I know; I cried like a big sappy baby, too.

He claims to love the picture, but I think he's just being nice. 'Cause that's the sort of relationship we have now. We're not always completely honest with each other in the hopes that it'll keep things on an even keel. I tell him the truth about the important stuff, but little things, like 'oh, I *loved* those brownies you baked' or 'no, you don't look dumb in those cargo pants' or even 'your hair does NOT grow straight up and please don't let Spike get to you' are okay to fudge about.

He tells me to be safe. He tells me he misses me. I tell him the same. All that's fine. It's normal; it's a level of ache that I can manage.

But of course, being Angel, he had to ruin the beautiful façade we had worked so hard to build. He just had to go and tell me he loved me before closing out his last letter, which I opened not two hours before we climbed on that late night flight to New Orleans.

That, coupled with his stupid ((sweet)) scrawly thing ((God, I need Angel's handwriting more than I ever needed Riley's anything)) has rendered me an utterly useless, emotional basket case.

And that was BEFORE I had The Dream again during the eight minutes of sleep I got over Texas.

So my little sister will just have to FORGIVE me for being a little snippy this weekend.

Let her chalk it up to hormones, or 'that time of the month' -- that's sure a hell of a lot easier than explaining to everyone what's really going on. How much more I've been missing him lately.

I haven't shared the weird ((prophetic)) dream I had about Angel with another living soul. It's almost as though saying it out loud will take the magic from it, and frankly, it's not something I'm willing to jinx for anything in the world. It's been nearly four years, and I can't make myself give up the stupid hope that dream filled me with. Willow's been looking at me strangely, though. I think her witchy sense is picking something up. Or maybe it's just her Best Friend Radar. It wouldn't take a supernatural creature to read me lately. The vibes I'm giving off are probably strong enough for *Xander* to pick up on.

Angel missage should be redefined as an art form, I put in so much work on it.

You know, the kicker is, none of this would be anywhere near as confusing and hard as it is if I actually had the right to miss him.

He doesn't live in my world. We aren't a couple. We still love each other, and we still want each other, and everything in the world is still in the way of our actually being together, and we're not. Together. Nothing ever changes for us, and sometimes I wish I could stop loving him. Then I remember that feeling in my dream ((perfect happiness)) and I remember that it only hurts being without him this much because of how good it is when I am with him.

Remembering all that doesn't make it easier. It makes it harder.

And I so need to stop whining right now.

Right. Not gonna happen.

The letters make it worse.

At first, it helped, to write down my thoughts, to seal them up and send them to him ((for him)) with all my love expressed on sheets of paper with cute little angels on the border that I swiped from Professor Jordan's poetry class.

It was better, having that love be implied, but not directly spoken of. That way, I could pretend we were just friends ((you'll never be friends; you'll be in love 'til it kills you both)) and that I didn't miss him so much my soul ached with the absence of him inside me where he belongs.

He broke that, though. That unwritten, unspoken understanding between us. I mean, how could he do that? How could he tell me he loved me and expect me to go on with things as they are? Didn't he realize that with just a few gentle words from him, I'm a puddle of mush, ready to ooze the whole way to Los Angeles so I can soak into his skin where *I* belong?

Okay, bad metaphor, but see, this is what he does to me!

"Where the hell is Xander?" I snarl. My poor friends look scared of me, but I can't be bothered to care. I spin on my heel and stalk into the shop Dawn disappeared into the last time I snapped at her.

The shop is thick with incense smoke, and a weird aura of magick not unlike the Magick Box after Tara and Willow have cooked something up. The place looks like something straight out of the movies, with chicken bones, feathers and beads hanging all over the place. I scan the room until I locate my wandering friend and my annoying sister. Spike is loitering near her, which is lucky for him, because I gave him strict orders not to let her out of his sight while we're in this ooky city.

"Buff, check it out!" Xander cackles, holding up a bag of what looks like shiny dust proudly. "Lady Anais gave it to me. As in, no money changed hands. She said

An would get a kick out of it." He looks like an eager puppy. "She said she 'saw an old soul' in my heart. Get it? Anya, old soul."

"Got it," I sigh. "Can we go now?"

A withered old lady who's got to be Lady Anais looks at me. I feel like she's trying to see inside my skin and it's creepy. She looks about a thousand years old. There's this . . . mist . . . in her eyes, and it's like she knows me and she's trying to whisper something in my mind, only my thoughts are too chaotic and I'm cupping my hand to my ear but I still can't hear her and I wish I could because I just know it's important . . .

. . . and at some point, Dawn and Xander must have herded me out of the shop, because we're standing outside again, and everyone's looking at me like I'm nuts.

"Yo, Buff, wanna try beaming back to earth any time soon?"

Startling, I notice Xander beside me. Anya is attached to his left side, as usual, and Willow and Tara are to my right, holding hands in that way that lovers have, with their whole arms entwined. I feel sick.

"Look! Spike bought me a voodoo doll," Dawn says proudly, displaying the hideous

little bit of cloth in her hands.

I turn murderous eyes on Spike. The encounter in the voodoo shop is barely a dim memory. "You bought her a voodoo doll?"

"What of it?" he asks, inching closer to my little sister. He knows I'd never stake him in front of Dawn. He's usually right. Given my current state of mind, however . . .

"I told you not to buy her creepy supernatural things," I state coldly.

"Her best friends are soddin' creepy supernatural things," he notes dryly.

I'm trying to formulate a response when it hits me how badly I wish Giles were here. If my Watcher were present, he'd put Spike in his place for me while I quietly fell apart. Giles could always tell when I was about to fall apart.

Stupid Giles having to spend time in stupid England instead of staying here with stupid Buffy who can't stop loving her stupid vampire.

"Buffy," Willow says gently, "hotel?"

"Right," I agree stiffly. I'm so edgy. I'll have to apologize to all of them -- even Spike, as much as I'm not looking forward to that -- later.

I don't mean to be edgy. It's just that my skin is itching. And not in a way that a hot shower and some Lubriderm could help. My skin is itching in the way it used to, before Angel and I made love. I used to spend all day away from him,

and even when my mind didn't realize I was missing him, my body knew full well.

I didn't know what I was missing yet, either, I just knew I needed to be close to him, needed to feel him.

After it all went bad, when he was back, and we still couldn't be together, my skin didn't itch anymore. It just burned. It burned for him, because of him, because it knew we'd never have each other the way we wanted.

Why, suddenly, is my skin all itchy again? Things haven't changed. Maybe it's just the distance. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and the flesh grow tingly?

"La Maison Heureux du Plaisir?" Spike asks, chuckling as he stares up at the hotel I booked us in.

"What?" I snap.

"Uh, Buffy," Willow says slowly, "do you remember high school French at all?"

"Will, you tutored me in high school French," I snap. "Of course I don't remember it. I was kinda preoccupied for all of high school." I frown, and take in the amused look on Spike's face, the lascivious way Anya is staring at Xander, and the half-embarrassed, half-amorous gazes Tara and Willow are exchanging. "Why?" I ask slowly, not liking this at all.

"La Maison Heureux du Plaisir loosely translates into the bleedin' House of Pleasure," Spike informs me with a leer.

"Oh, fuck me," I moan.

Dawn gasps. "Buffy, you said--"

"Shut up," I snap. There goes my skin again, itching and burning at the same damn time. God, it almost feels like Angel's *here* and I still can't touch him.

I've got to stop thinking about him before my sexual frustration alienates all my friends -- even *Spike* -- and traumatizes my sister further.

"Is that an offer, Slayer?" Spike whispers low enough so no one but me will here.

That's when I know that if I don't either screw Angel into the ground soon, or stake him dead, that I will go completely insane from wanting him.

Because, God help me, I considered Spike's come on for nearly five whole seconds.

"We're checking in," I say primly, spinning on my heel, half-hoping none of them will follow me.

Stupid demon in stupid New Orleans making stupid Buffy drag her stupid friends across the stupid country and I still can't stop thinking about stupid Angel!

"A late check-in," the man behind the counter observes as we all stumble to the counter.

"Brilliant observation," I snipe. Damn, bitca Buffy is hard to subdue.

"We usually don't get too many visitors who arrive after midnight," he notes in his snotty French accent. He's probably not even French. Snotty fake French guy.

"Funny, I thought New Orleans was a big vampire town," I tell him blandly.

He pauses for a moment; inches an eyebrow up. "It is," he confirms seriously, "but creatures of the night are unwelcome in this establishment."

I blink; notice the shocked expressions of my friends. "We've got one with us," I say, wanting to be honest with this guy. Something tells me he might be able to help me get this job done as fast as possible. Assuming I don't kill him because he's so irritating. But, oh, God, do I want to get this job done as fast as possible. Mardis Gras looms and if I'm here for it, I just know I'm getting knockdown drunk. "But don't worry -- he's housebroken," I promise, sliding a sidelong glance at Spike.

To his credit, Spike just glares at me and stays close to Dawn.

"Enjoy your stay, then," the man says, handing me three room keys -- Spike and Dawn and I would be bunking together because I wasn't about to rent Spike his own room, and leaving him alone with Dawn was just so not going to happen. He's been looking at her lately. In a way that's different from the way he's looked at her since she was fourteen. And I *don't* like it.

I hand Willow and Tara, then Xander and Anya their keys. "Sleep," I say firmly. "For tomorrow we will no doubt get really icky in the pursuit of big bad evil."

Willow and Xander mock salute me before they take their significant others upstairs. I sigh and absently rub the side of my neck, over the mark Angel left on me. God, Angel . . .

I need such help.


	3. Angel: "The Road Trip to Hell"

I have often lamented the fact that I have never, and probably will never, have children. It seemed one of the saddest facts of my existence, actually... besides having to give up the hope of ever being able to spend my life with Buffy, of course.

Though I still fully regret and mourn for the latter, I'd like to take this opportunity to lodge a petition withdrawing any desperate begging for offspring I might have indulged in over the decades. I've decided that I have *never* been happier *not* to have a family. And I will never, ever long for one again.

I have spent a long time teetering on the edge of sanity. I live with a planet of guilt and regret perched on my chest, crushing my heart. But I'm strong... I've never really lost it.

Okay, so maybe that Darla thing a few years back was a close call. But *this*... this is a whole Hell of a lot closer than I ever remember being.

"You're on *my* side!"

"Cordelia, for the hundredth time, I am *not* on *your* side -- as evidenced by the line of scotch tape you've so helpfully laid out as a boundary for us, upon which *I* fully occupy the *left* side, and *you* occupy the right!"

"Yeah, well, you were touching *my* leg with *your* stinky, no-shower-in-five-days leg, and *my* leg is on *my* side, so... do the math!"

"Perhaps if you wouldn't keep sitting directly *on* the tape in order to make room for your portable *luggage showroom*, there wouldn't be so much confusion!"

"Whatever, Wesley. Hey! When is it my turn for shotgun?"

"When you haul my cold, dead corpse out this here seat. I'm not gettin' that close to Wes again. He's funky."

"I beg your pardon! I'll have *both* of you know that *neither* of you are in any more hygienic condition than I! Believe me, Cordelia, shaving your legs at a rest area does *not* make a suitable substitute for a *bath*, no matter *how much* perfume you douse yourself with!"

"HEY! Chanel No. 5 is a HELL of a lot better than uptight skinny Englishman BO!"

I am going to kill them.

No, really. I'm serious. I can feel that homicidal twitch in my gut... the little itching sensation in my hands. There's a perpetual growl humming in my chest that's been there for, oh... about 4000 miles, now.

You know what? I not only don't want to have children, I think I'll devote my eternity to lobbying for the outlawing of cross-country car trips. I can make amends by saving other fools from taking the journey into insanity that I have over the past week.

Suddenly, I feel a sting of pain in my heart, and find myself wishing that Buffy were here. She would probably laugh and sing some heinous pop "song" she found on the radio, or tell me pointless stories about television characters or something as we drove, or sleep quietly, or play the license plate game and just generally be glad to get out of California.

Not that we've actually *gone* anywhere together. But I like to think that she would make a far better travelling companion than these three bickering *brats*. Truth be told, I'm fairly certain she would make a better comrade for pretty much *any* activity.

Of course, that could also just be my eternally unsated desire for her company talking. A desire that's kicked up exponentially in the years since Joyce passed away. Time that we've spent making some inroads to truly becoming friends for the first time since we've known one another.

It started that night in the cemetery, what is it, more than three years ago, now? God... I can still recall every moment of that night in perfect detail... roll it over and over in my mind, and never get tired of it. The way she smelled... bittersweet, that unique Buffyscent tinged with sorrow... the sensation of her warm, soft body in my arms. And that kiss... that single, earth-shattering kiss... I can't even put into words what that did to me.

Yeah, I know. It's pretty rude to be drowning in want while comforting your ex-lover in a graveyard on the eve of her mother's funeral. But then... I guess a lot of my relationship with Buffy has been twisted and bizarre like that. How many nights did we spend groping each other in cemetaries back before everything went so horribly wrong? More than is normal, I'd venture to guess. And my relationship with Death itself is more skewed than most people's... and probably vampires' too, when I think about it. I've watched the circle of life go round and round, always passing me by. I've witnessed generations being born and growing, loving and dying, and I've always been left on the outside, looking in, wondering where I fit into it all. Like Death himself probably feels.

Except when I was with Buffy. It's painfully cliche and... sort of pathetic, I guess... to think this, but... when I was -- am -- with her, I'm almost alive. Almost warm with her heat... almost nourished by her breath and animated by her heartbeat. Her smile... her tears... they do things to my dead heart that are completelyi ndescribable, and so very, very precious.

So, yes, I wanted Buffy that night. I've always wanted her. All the time, distance and circumstances in the universe haven't changed that fact one bit.

After I tore myself away from her that night, making it home just barely before sunrise, I made a promise to myself. I swore I was going to keep my distance from her emotionally, while still taking her back into my life. *Not* my heart... at least, not any more than she already was. Not my body, either -- no touching, no matter how badly we both want it. I still remember how things started on the day that I was human... and that kiss in the graveyard... all it takes is one moment of contact, and that is where all the pain begins for us. If we could only stay away from that line...

I just wanted so badly to get to know her again, whatever the cost. On the drive back to LA, I put on my rational ((denial)) thinking cap, and set about justifying all the ways that we ((I)) so desperately needed one another in our lives. We could support one another in our often heart-wrenching, world-in-the-balance missions the way that none of our friends, however well-intentioned, possibly could. We understood done another instinctively, which laid the foundation for the kind of trust we could put in no one else. We knew one another -- dark sides and light. We had a history of shared experience that couldn't possibly be comprehensible to anyone who wasn't us, and there was a bond between us that could never be denied or replaced.

Oh, yes, I was the king of rationality on that long drive home, despite the fact that my hands and lips still burned with the remnants of her living heat, my mouth was still coated with the salt of her tears, and my entire body was tight and humming with desire as though my recent orgasm with Darla had never happened at all.

Which, a lot of the time, I pretended it hadn't.

How could we possibly go on without all of that, my heart screeched at me. Any Buffy was better than no Buffy at all, right? This I knew from direct experience.

So, for three years, we've been doing this... bizarre approach/repel/avoid dance that still, despite its sometimes harrowing tensions and pregnant silences, translates into the most fulfilling, intimate friendship I've ever had. This time has brought us far closer than I ever imagined ((hoped. prayed.)) that we could be, making us family, now... in a twisted, back-woods, 'I'm in love with my second cousin' sort of way...

I admire the strong, together woman she's become, even as she's managed to retain so much of that sardonic wit and joie de vivre that has always been uniquely hers. I know her in ways now that I never had the opportunity or privilege to when we were... lovers. ((It feels wrong to think that we "were" anything, when all of the very same emotions and longing I had for her then are still fully present and agonizingly sharp now.)) She's truly an amazing person. It's stunning to see how she's grown into herself and her place in the world. How she now carries her responsibilities ((motherhood)) with so much grace. She knows and feels and believes things that endlessly enthrall and fascinate me. And there are times when we speak on the phone, or I read her frequent ((lovescented)) letters, or we chat over coffee in some anonymous java joint downtown, when I'm overcome with just how much I genuinely *like* and *admire* her. I wonder -- have I ever had such a platonic affinity for someone my entire being fairly constantly screamed out to strip bare and make love to until both of us perished from exhaustion?

I honestly don't think so.

Oh, Hell, who am I trying to kid? I've fallen in love with this new-old Buffy all over again -- deeper, faster, and harder than last time. I ache for her every moment of every day... think about her incessantly, even when we're together. I memorize her letters... carry them around in my pocket like some besotted schoolboy, to pull out and re-read in private moments. I roll our conversations over and over in my mind until I have to seriously question my already questionable sanity. I sometimes sit and stare at the photograph she gave me last Christmas for hours on end. And my sleep for the past three years has been haunted by this vivid, recurring dream...

No. I can't think about that now. Can't let my mind wander to those night visions of the two of us, happy and safe, lying in bed, laughing and teasing one another and making love again and again and again...

Okay. Stop.

I force myself to focus on the highway stretching out before me once more. Try to bring myself back to the present while still tuning out the... goddamn... DRONING of my family fighting all around me.

Maybe the fantasizing is better. Yeah. It definitely is. I'll get back to it, then.

As much as I hate to admit it -- and I can barely articulate how *very* much I do -- Spike was right. We'll be in love until it kills us both. Or at least, I will. I'm finished... done for...doomed. And last week, I proved it by breaking my own cardinal Buffy-Friendship rule.

I told her as much.

Now, I should preface this in my own defense by saying that she and I had just lived through a pretty traumatic emotional and physical experience together. A pack of Rontak demons kidnapped Dawn on her 17th birthday, laboring under the delusion that they could somehow tap into the Power of the Key and use it to unleash some unspeakable evil on the world. Her sister is the epicenter of Buffy's universe, and when she called me, so hysterical she was barely coherent, and begged for my help...

She never had to beg. In fact, I barely wasted a moment to tell her to hold on, I was on my way, and I was already out the door, axe and Book of Kelsor in hand, and Gunn in tow.

We defeated the demons, naturally. But it wasn't easy. And I saw that the close call wounded something already raw and weak inside of Buffy. I stayed the whole night that time, holding her for a good seven hours straight as she completely fell apart in my arms. While the experience had understandably frightened Dawn, she eventually managed to calm down and go to bed, but her sister came unwound in a way that, frankly, terrified me.

To tell the truth, the world could have easily come crashing down around my ears that night, and nothing -- I mean *nothing*, short of being staked -- could have torn me from her side.

I was so scared, I didn't think about being naked with her even once.

So in my last letter, those taboo words just sort of slipped from my pen without my notice. Just... "I love you, Buffy. Be well." At the time, I didn't give it a second thought. It was a perfectly natural way to end an intimate written conversation with the woman I love, right?

Wrong. The words started haunting me the moment the letter disappeared into the gaping maw of the big, blue mailbox on the corner. What had I done? Isn't this the very road I had vowed not to take? Wouldn't those words just loose all the chains binding the out-of-control freight train that our passion for one another has always been, and send us hurtling right back toward that inevitable abyss of goodbye once again?

I admit it... I panicked. I had visions of vamping out right there on the street and ripping the mailbox from its moorings, tearing out its guts until I found that damned envelope with my heart and our doom sealed inside and take it back before I lost my soul and the world got sucked into Hell.

Yes, I am aware of the fact that I might have overreacted, just a tad. But you have to understand... the way I feel about Buffy -- the way I have *always* felt about her -- is something profound and fundamental to the very ground of my being. However much I might have learned or gained or built in my world since we were separated, she is still at the core of it all. She is the only reason I ever bothered to step back into that world to begin with -- I would have had *nothing* if she hadn't given me all she did, just by existing. Even the bare crumbs of her reality were like ambrosia to me, a pathetic creature that had been subsisting on nothing but rats and darkness and self-loathing for decades. She's been my sunlight, my thin shred of hope, my vision of the future, since the first moment I lay eyes on her, a shining innocent about to have the weight of the world dumped on her tiny shoulders, what seems like an eon ago. Those years when we barely spoke after I left Sunnydale were like one bottomless abyss of loneliness, so deep that the end result was my very nearly losing my mind, and *trying* to lose my soul.

The fragile, beautiful friendship that we have been struggling so hard to build means more to me than... well... anything, actually. As childish and selfish as that may sound. I would rather spend another eternity in Hell than risk what we share.

So, yes, I panicked to think that I might have just thrown it all away by carelessly writing three ridiculously simple and truthful words on a piece of paper.

I managed to subdue the urge to blatantly violate several dozen federal laws, but nonetheless, what I had done started nagging at me, day and night. Had I ruined it, this delicate thing that Buffy and I had been building? Would she call and tell me to go jump in the Pacific... at noon? Would she scream and rail and cry about what a bastard I am, like I half-expect her to do every time we speak to one another?

I never got the chance to find out. In what seemed like the space of a heartbeat, Cordelia had a vision -- of something devouring Mardi Gras revelers on Bourbon Street, of all places; Nabbit offered to bankroll our trip ((Dear Gods, why didn't we charter a PLANE?)), Wesley declared it was high time we all took a holiday, even if it was a working one...

Now, here we are --

"Gunn, could you PLEASE pull the SEAT UP? My LEGS are going numb!"

"Maybe if your *ass* wasn't so damn big, you wouldn't take up so much space!"

"Oh! You are SO gonna pay for that, shiny boy!"

"Cordelia, look! Now you are, without a *doubt*, on my side of the car!"

Hell.

But then I look up, and like a blessing from the Heavens complete with trumpets blaring and a choir of angels singing, the green metal and white letters glowing with a holy light, I see the exit sign:

New Orleans. French Quarter. Next Right.

"Thank GOD," I groan, and slam the gas pedal to the floor.

I have enough to atone for already. I'm thinking that adding three sadistically slaughtered friends left rotting in an abandoned car on the side of Louisiana Highway 101 isn't going to earn me any points in the plus column.

Although, it is *Cordelia*, so... you never know.

God, I miss you, Buffy. I have to remember to pick up some postcards when we get to the hotel. Maybe I can still manage some damage control that won't leave our friendship in *total* ruins just because I can't keep my damned mouth shut and my feelings to myself. As usual, with her.

We weave our way through almost bumper to bumper traffic, even though it's close to 11 p.m. It is Mardi Gras, after all. I finally guide the Plymouth into the underground garage, and I can't help but smirk again at the hotel's name.

Cordelia made us reservations at... get this... La Maison Heureux du Plaisir. She said it sounded luxurious, but at a 'reasonable price.' Wesley and I both stared at her in stunned disbelief when she told us.

We were taking rooms at The House of Pleasure. Yet another delightful irony that perfectly symbolizes the garbage heap that is currently my life.

I wonder how Buffy is doing.


	4. Buffy: "Primal Scream"

It's just past midnight. I'm hot, my skin is sticky, and the seven minutes of sleep I've managed (the eight minutes on the plane notwithstanding) have yielded zero rest and another lusty Angel dream to add to the mental slideshow my brain's been holding for me since we boarded our nonstop flight from Sunnydale.

Spike and Dawn aren't sleeping. I glance to the left and see them sitting Indian style beneath the sheet, their heads tenting it, a flashlight between them giving the room an eerie glow. I swear, Dawn's perpetually fourteen when it comes to Spike. Outside, New Orleans is disturbingly quiet. The city is lulling me. Tomorrow it plans to burst free.

Tonight, though, the sounds I hear are threatening to drive me mad. Through the wall near my head, I hear the moaning-groaning-squeaking sounds of people who aren't me making love. I think it's Xander and Anya, and God knows Anya's given us all enough details to recognize the sounds Xander makes by now.

If it's not the sound of someone who, by the way, *isn't* me getting laid, it's Spike's version of a ghost story. Dawn had offered up some of the Scooby Gang's more entertaining adventures Spike either hadn't been in Sunnydale for, or had been trying his Evil Boy Scout Best to kill us during. Now, Spike is giving her lowly whispered accounts of his long, illustrious career at giving people something other than made up fables to be frightened of in the dark.

Some of his stories involve Angelus, Darla, and Dru. It's surreal, listening to the vampire I entrust with my sister's ((daughter's)) life speak of my lover ((former, idiot, former)) so familiarly. Spike may have been speaking of Angelus, not Angel, but it conjures the same face in my mind and I miss him too much to care about the distinction at the moment.

"Was it an angry mob, like in Frankenstein?" Sometimes I forget my little girl is almost grown up. Her voice sounds so innocent in these moments. It makes me miss mom even more. It makes me so sad she wasn't here to watch Dawn grow: to help guide her.

"Angrier," Spike whispers. "They chased the four of us out of town. Darla spotted the entrance to the tunnels, and Angelus grabbed Dru 'n me by the scruffs of our necks and fairly threw us down the hole."

"Did the mob follow you?"

"They thought the tunnels were haunted. Their human fear wouldn't allow them to follow, even after the monsters that ravaged their town." Jeez, he sounds like a ringmaster entertaining a crowd of people. Has he no shame?

Stupid question, Buffy, I mock myself. No soul equals no shame.

"What did Angel do?"

"Very nearly staked me."

They were giggling.

I can't take it anymore. I throw the covers off of my body and flounce out of bed.

"Would you two PLEASE be silent when I get back?" I bark as I stalk into the bathroom.

"Y'know, these are my bloody peak hours, Slayer," Spike calls after me.

"And I slept on the plane," Dawn yells. "It's your own fault you're tired, Ms. 'I'm-Terrified-Of-Plane-Technology-But-I'm-The-Slayer-So-I-Can't-Admit-It.'"

Closing the door, I let my head thump twice against the tiles. Ooo, they're cool. I press my entire body against them until I feel the soothing texture bleed through the sticky cotton of my shorts and tank top. A moment later, I realize I'm unconsciously rubbing against the wall, that my nipples are pebbled, craving the contact, and suddenly the coolness burns. I leap away from the wall, shocked at the display I'd just been making, at what I'd just been feeling.

What the hell is wrong with me? I've never been this . . . *horny*. Not even that time Riley and I were trapped in Lowell House, forced to continuously mate by that nervous spiritual energy, or whatever it was. I'm still sort of fuzzy about what, exactly, happened there.

I'm pretty dang fuzzy right now, too. Besides the itching and burning in my skin, I've been perpetually aroused since we hit Bourbon Street. All I want to do is press myself against Angel's cool, hard body and let him make it better. He always knows how to make it better . . .

Is that moaning?

Warily approaching the wall again, I press my ear against the tile to listen. I recognize these sounds, too. Tara and Willow are taking a shower. Together. Fun ways to conserve water, I remember Willow telling me once with a blush.

God, I'm in hell.

I'd been half considering dragging a pillow and blanket in here to sleep in the tub, given that Spike and Dawn were showing no signs of sleeping, and Xander and Anya no signs of stopping. That plan is definitely out, because even though they take these showers under the pretense of water conservation, Willow and Tara end up staying in there until they're pruny and all the hot water's gone.

Spring Break once again flashes through my mind. We'd rented a house on the beach. Xander and Anya spent most of their time making out in the ocean and having sex when they thought no one was looking. Willow and Tara liked the shower. Dawn had stayed home with Spike, and she'd been half-irritated at being excluded, and half-glad her sister was finally entrusting her to stay relatively unsupervised (it WAS Spike who was looking after her - not exactly the pinup boy for responsible adult behavior) at the age of sixteen.

I didn't have a single hot shower that entire vacation. Giggles come from the other room and I restrain the urge to sob with frustration.

"I need you."

My eyes snap open, and I dart my gaze around the room frantically. That was Angel's voice. I know Angel's voice. Angel's voice is imprinted on my soul's memory. If I were deaf, I would hear him calling for me, especially if he needed me.

"You're imagining things," I tell myself firmly. "You're cracking up, Summers."

And I am. These dreams are stretching the tiny piece of sanity I've managed to retain to the snapping point. It's not right that I should be able to feel Angel when I'm asleep, that the subconscious, deep R.E.M. sleep version of me has a more active sex life than I do. I've dreamt of making love to him, fucking him, screwing him in a variety of creative and varied positions I've never even read about, let alone experienced WITH him.

We only had one night together. It was beautiful, and perfect, and I wouldn't trade the memory of it for the world -- but it had still been only once, and it had been my first time. There hadn't been a lot of opportunity for creativity. We just . . . we'd just needed each other so badly, and he'd been so careful for me, wanted to spare me pain that he hadn't tried anything too invasive or kinky. Then, he'd whispered in my ear that we had time, that he wanted to show me everything, help me feel everything.

The one thing we'd never had together was time.

This latest dream is pushing me over the edge. And the only thing I can do is lean my back against these achingly cool tiles, close my eyes, and relive it.

I'm lying on my stomach in that too-firm hotel bed, my face buried in the pillow, my hips restlessly moving against the mattress. The burning is consuming my body and my crotch is seeking whatever relief it can from the cool sheets beneath me. In my dream, the room is thankfully devoid of Spike and Dawn and their endless chatter. There is no moaning from Xander and Anya, and no ecstatic giggling from Willow and Tara.

As I grind and stifle my own groans, I feel him. He peels the sheet away from my body, and I realize I'm naked as his lips press against the sharp blade of my shoulder. Arching back into him, I stop fucking the mattress. Angel's here now. He'll make it better.

His cool, gentle, rough, loving hands sweep over my hips, my rear, the backs of my thighs. He shifts, and presses the full length of his naked torso to my back. I hiss at the contact and move my back against his front. With a moan, I bring his arms around me; urge his hands to cup my breasts. He brushes the rough pads of his thumbs over my nipples, and I'm keening against him and he's barely touched me. He's hard for me, and I rub my ass against his erection; beg him to take me . . .

Unfortunately, that was when I woke up. Seven minutes of heaven, and I'm thrust back into this living hell with my moaning giggling chatty friends and GOD I'm so freakin' frustrated I'm going to explode!

That's it. No more Angel longing. No more 'ooo, cool tiles feel so good.' No more sleepless nights. No more dreams, and no more refusing to go to the bed *I* paid for because my little sister and her pet demon aren't tired. *I'm* exhausted, and *I'm* going to sleep, and if Xander and Anya don't FINISH within the next thirty seconds, I'm . . . I'm going to . . . Well, I don't know what, but I'm the Slayer, damn it, and they'll sure as hell be sorry.

Throwing the bathroom door open, my head of steam is abruptly cut off.

I've experienced first hand the expression 'steal the breath from my body.' Angel did it on more occasions than I can count. Over the years, I've faced any number of slimy evil creepy things that have temporarily cut off the flow of oxygen to my brain. However, I've always been able to recover. Snap myself out of it. Save the day.

As I take in the sight before me, I honestly can't remember how my lungs work.

My vocal chords, on the other hand . . .

"What the HELL are you DOING?!"

I don't know which one of them I'm yelling at, but they both spring away from each other and roll to opposite sides of the bed to stare at me in stunned, frightened shock. I'd almost think the looks on their faces were comical if the image of them kissing weren't forever burned in my mind.

Spike. Kissing. Dawn. Dawn. Kissing. Spike. Spike. ON. Dawn. Dawn. Moaning. God. No. Not. Happening. Breathe. Buffy. Breathe.

"Buffy," Dawn whispers, covering her mouth with her hand.

Oxygen races into my lungs. I take great, gasping breaths of it. I stagger a little under the force, but quickly regain my footing. Glaring at Spike, I turn sharply, grab the too-tiny-chair that goes with the too-tiny-desk and snap one of the legs off.

"You. Toast," I hiss at Spike as I start toward him.

"Buffy, no!" Dawn yells, placing her body between Spike and I.

"Dawn, move," I order firmly.

"Get out'a the way, love," Spike whispers in her ear. She's clutching at his shirt with one hand, warding me off with the other.

She's warding ME off?! He's the soulless demon who just took advantage of her! I'm just doing my Big Sister Duty by taking him out of this world.

"I'm not just gonna let her kill you!" Dawn shrieks.

"I'm not going to kill him," I say soothingly. "I'm just going to take him to a farm. A nice vampire farm where he'll be able to play with the other vampires."

Hey, it worked when Mom told us about our fifteen-year-old dog, just before the move to Sunnydale, right?

"Dawn, move out of the soddin' way," Spike snaps.

"She won't hurt you as long as I'm in the soddin' way!" Dawn yells back.

"She's gone bloody unhinged," Spike insists. "Look at her! She's not all there. Hasn't been, 'far as I'm concerned, since Christmas with Peaches."

"Shut up," I growl. "Dawn. Move. Spike. Outside."

"Please don't kill him!" Dawn begs, and there are tears in her eyes. "Buffy, I . . . I love him."

My head hurts so much right now. "Dawn . . . no, you don't. You can't."

"I love her," Spike says bravely.

((nothappeningnothappeningnothappeningnothappening))

Puzzle pieces start dropping into place like I'm playing Level 9 of Tetris and kicking the game's ass.

"Spring Break," I mutter.

Dawn won't meet my gaze. Spike -- SPIKE, evil, demon, SOULLESS SPIKE - almost looks guilty.

"No," I moan. "No, no, no, no . . ."

"It was the first time," Dawn whispers. "Buffy, I swear, we didn't want you to find out like this, we didn't want you to walk in on us, but . . . I don't know, it's just . . ."

"It's this bleedin' city, is what it is," Spike mutters. "Makes a bloke blind to pretty much everything but . . ." He trails off and his gaze warily tracks from my face, to the makeshift stake still tightly clutched in my fist. He pauses; weighs his options. I can see the predator, the demon inside him yearning to survive, to bolt, to outrun me. But more, I see . . . the man in him. The man whose been slipping to the surface the longer Spike's forced to live his existence around us. I see a silent battle of wills rage between man and demon.

And damned if I don't see the man win.

"I love your girl," Spike says with that quiet intensity he's always possessed. Damn, that used to creep me out when he was trying to kill me. "I love her more than anything, and I'll keep her safe, just like I always have, 'til the end of the world."

My gaze moves from the blinding adoration n Dawn's eyes, to the honesty in Spike's, and I feel something inside me break. I'm still clutching the stake as I walk past them in a daze. Dawn grows more defensive, but I'm not going to stake Spike. I won't do that to her, no matter how much pain it might spare her in the end. Vampires and humans don't work together, but we Summers girls are apparently cursed.

"I'm going for a walk," I say numbly. Before either of them can process what I just said, I'm already out the door. I walk into the dark, sticky night and consciously remind myself how to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

Angel.

He's inside the beat of my heart, the breath in my body. The rhythm of his name, of HIM plays in time with my every movement, my every thought. It's been that way from the beginning; it's been that way all this time we've been playing at 'just friends.' It was just easier to ignore before I knew he still loved me too. That he probably still feels me in his nonexistent heartbeat, in the phantom breath he pulls through his dead lungs.

I breathe him, I need him, and I'm still not allowed to have him.

In. Out. Angel. In. Out. Angel.

It's almost soothing. I've been ignoring the ache for so long, it really is comforting to feel it there again, firmly perched in my breast, stretching its icy-hot fingers to my womb and back again, just like it always did...before.

Spike's not Angel. Spike has a chip. There's no loophole, no fear of him waking up and snapping Dawn's neck. He'd die for her. I know he's capable of love, I've seen it, I've been on the receiving end of it ((eww gross)) a few times. I want so badly for all the blinding rage inside me to only be because I'm scared for Dawn, worried that she'll be hurt by what is clearly an impossible relationship.

And though that's definitely part of it - a big part -- the beat of my heart, my life's breath ((in.out.angel.in.out.angel.in.out.angel)) tells me a different story.

I'm so jealous of my little sister right now, I could scream.

In fact, that sounds like the best idea I've had since I decided it would be a great opportunity for some much needed time off if we all came to New Orleans together. I take a deep, diaphragm breath and let a high pitched, keening wail loose into the heavy night.

I'm a good mile from the hotel now, and I'm glad. Hopefully none of my friends heard that. Spike probably did, but he'll recognize it for what it was and won't worry. In fact, he'll probably laugh.

I'm dying without Angel. And my mind just caught up with my heart at the realization. Yeah... that definitely rates a Primal Scream.


	5. Angel - The Claws of the Big Easy

My family miraculously survives all the way into the underground garage at La Maison Heureux du Plaisir -- by a sheer stroke of luck that they would no doubt fall to their knees and thank the Powers for, had they any idea how close they had really come to a grisly end at my hands.

But as I'm hauling five tons of Louis Vuitton luggage up four flights of fire stairs, I'm thinking that my mercy can't possibly last much longer.

"Will you be *careful* with that?" Cordelia snipes, "Those bags are worth more than you could dream of making in your entire eternal unlife! And that's not even *mentioning* what's inside!"

I grumble incoherently at her, resisting the urge that pops into my head - to shift into game face and knock her back down the fire stairs by *dropping* all this crap on her.

"Christ, Diel, did you pack your whole damn wardrobe? I got *one* duffel bag, and I could live out of that for a *month*!" Gunn complains over his own armload of her suitcases.

"We're in *New Orleans*. It's *Mardi Gras*. I have to be prepared for *anything*," she explains, as if that somehow makes it right that we're carrying enough designer clothing to stock several suburban shopping malls.

"Perhaps we should consider hiring a pack mule," Wesley gripes, wrestling still more of Cordelia's belongings.

"Why?" she chirps happily, patting me ((with her *empty* hand)) on the back, "When we have a perfectly serviceable pack vampire?"

"I hate you," I snarl under my breath.

All I want right now is to suck down a couple of pints from the cooler dangling off my pinky finger, stumble into a skin-peeling, brain-meltingly hot shower to soak for a year or two, then crawl between cool, soft, clean hotel sheets and sleep until I'm absolutely *needed* to kill whatever it is we're here to kill.

Most of all, I want to be away from *them*. Alone in my own room, in my own bed, with my own thoughts, and slip into the easy bliss of sleep, where I will no doubt have one of my increasingly frequent carnal Buffy dreams.

If I wasn't crumbling under the weight of several people's worth of suitcases, I would probably sigh. Thinking about Buffy does that to me... a sensation that's half comfort, half torture. Like a wave of cool water soothing my hot temper. But, of course, the water's full of ground glass. Agony and ecstasy, as usual.

I could call her when I get upstairs. It's still early in California.

Mm. Not such a good idea, I'm thinking. I mean, considering the sort of mood I'm in, what would I say? "Hey, Buffy, how are you? Listen, I was just entertaining lurid thoughts of you riding me like rodeo cowboy, so I thought I'd give you a ring and say hi. Oh, and by the way, did you get my letter? Just disregard that last part. What? Do I love you? Um, well... I think I drank some tainted blood, and it made me a little insane."

Maybe I'll wait until tomorrow to call her. Or next month.

We finally reach the door at the top of the stairs, but I don't have any hands left to open it with, and my burden is so huge, no one can get around me to do it in my place.

I feel that growl starting again... this time, from deep in my famished gut. We're trapped in a goddamn stairwell of the goddamn House of Pleasure because goddamn Cordelia has more goddamn luggage than goddamn DARLA!

That's when I lose it. "I CAN'T OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!" I bellow, shaking so hard, I'm pretty sure I'm going to combust into a pathetic pile of dust and designer luggage in a moment. Some tiny (and I mean *tiny*), still-sane part of me tsk-tsks disapprovingly at my graceless and decidedly undiplomatic handling of what would normally be a minor stressor. "WAS IT REALLY NECESSARY FOR YOU TO BRING *EVERYTHING* YOU OWN ON A SIMPLE DEMON HUNT?!"

Cordelia's mouth drops open in horrified shock at my outburst, and I. Don't. CARE!

"Hey, chill, A," Gunn chides gently, "I'll get it."

With a bit of jostling, a little squeezing, and a *lot* of growling, cursing and complaining, we manage to get the heavy fire door open and spill into the lobby. I let the suitcases fall haphazardly to the floor, uncaring how or where they end up, or about the way Cordelia is glaring at me, and rush forward, preparing to breathe a desperately needed sigh of relief.

It never comes. As soon as I'm free of the claustrophobia of the stairwell, a new sensation hits me. Like the building just fell down on my head, tearing into my soul, and taking a chokehold on my heart.

Buffy.

The very air of the elegantly appointed lobby is infused with her presence. It tingles on my skin and fills my lungs with her warmth... her scent. And then a wave of pure, hot, overwhelming desire rushes over me as if I had just stumbled upon her waiting for me in all her magnificent, naked glory. Arms open and beckoning. ((Take me, Angel...))

I freeze there, just inside the fire door, and start frantically scouring the room for her. She has to be here. There's no way I could have this sensation if she wasn't.

Naturally, she's not. In fact, there's no one there at all but ourselves and a rather non-plussed looking concierge, who is clearly not pleased to have to deal with a middle of the night check-in by four disheveled, angry, undoubtedly criminal tourists.

"Would you *move* already?" Cordy barks at me, shoving me aside and making a beeline for the desk. "Hi. We have reservations? Under Jones? Two doubles."

The concierge eyes her warily. Then his suspicious gaze ticks to Gunn, then to Wesley, and finally, to me, where it stays.

"Check-in is at 6 p.m.," he informs us in a mildly condescending patois.

I see Cordy's eyes narrow, and she leans a little further over the counter. "We've been riding in a car for a *seven*. *Days*. I smell like *lunch meat*. *Fried*. If there's some kind of charge, we'll pay it. Just. Give us. The damn. *KEYS!*"

"Please," Gunn adds politely.

The gentleman remains unmoved, and scowls darkly at Cordelia. I realize that it's entirely possible that we're about to get into a brawl with the effeminate concierge of La Maison Heureux du Plaisir. But I still can't seem to move. The irritation and weariness of the last few harrowing hours of our journey has simply evaporated under the searing heat washing through me, like I've caught a sudden fever.

I know it's can't be the air - I don't have a body temperature, and besides, the lobby is nicely air-conditioned. I don't feel sluggish like I sometimes do when I've consumed bad blood. I'm fairly certain, however annoyed my family might be with me right now, that they haven't tried to poison me. yet.

But still, I'm burning up. My skin itches, and it's far too tight for my frame. Or maybe that's just my clothes.

Wesley gives me a concerned glance. "Are you all right, Angel? You look pale.er than usual."

"I, uh." I mutter, wracking my brain for some explanation. any explanation that would cover why I'm suddenly so completely uncomfortable. ((hungryhornylonelyhotdesperate))

"I don't know," I finally reply.

Before he can comment on my apparent complete loss of marbles, Cordelia and Gunn return from their confrontation with the concierge, not only unscathed, but smiling brightly, and with their arms wrapped around one another.

Now. I realize that I'm a little out of practice in the romance department. But nonetheless, I'm also fairly certain that the kind of animosity they've been sharing over the past few days shouldn't go away just from two minutes arguing with a little Frenchman. Not to mention the fact that it's so out of *character* for them.

It's not exactly a secret that they're lovers, but public displays of that fact are rare. To see them suddenly tangled around one another like one couldn't stand without the support of the other throws me for a bit of a loop.

Okay, so. for an even *bigger* loop, then.

Cordelia dangles two room keys from the hand that isn't plunged deep in Gunn's back pocket. He grins stupidly at me as he fiddles with the ends of her hair.

Maybe we've all gone around the bend at last.

"Here. Keys. Now go away," she commands, handing one key each to myself and Wesley.

The ex-Watcher frowns at her. "And what about the two of you?"

"We're sharing," Gunn informs us, his canary-eating smile spreading an inch.

I just sort of blink at him.

"There's no bellboy until morning," Cordy adds, looking around at the wreckage of our arrival, "So... you should probably get started."

Wesley and I both look at the luggage scattered all over the lobby floor. Now I imagine I have an idea how the North Atlantic must have looked like after the Titanic sank.

Wes' face turns a deep, painful-looking crimson as he splutters, "I am *quite* through being your *bellboy*, thank you very much!" Then he turns on his heel and marches away, disappearing into the nearby bank of elevators.

We all watch him go, and then Cordy turns a pointed gaze to me.

My skin is threatening to crawl off my bones. I'm so hungry, I could rip her throat out right here in the lobby of the House of Pleasure and suck her dry. My hands itch like I'm holding fistfuls of Poison Ivy. I think I might even be sweating, and she wants me to carry her baggage upstairs.

To quote the Queen herself: Um... no. I may be easygoing, even conciliatory when it comes to her normally, but tonight, she should consider herself lucky that I let her *live*.

Without a word, I turn away from them and walk out the front doors, into the night.

I desperately need to be alone.

***

They say that New Orleans is haunted.

As I make my way through the late night crowds on Bourbon Street, past all the commercial bars packed with pre-Mardi Gras revelers, and come at last to Jackson Square, I remember that the ubiquitous "They" are right. The humid spring air is thick with ghosts... heavy with history. I can practically hear the past whispering to me as I walk along. Feel the essences of jazzmen and pirates, antebellum debutantes and carpetbaggers, rivermen, quadroon prostitutes and rebel soldiers crowding around me, jostling for elbowroom on the sidewalk.

But honestly? With all of that, I still don't think it's the city's specters that are really haunting me, so much as my own.

I don't know what's wrong with me all of a sudden. Sure, I'm exhausted, stiff, and still more than a little annoyed. But there's no particular reason for me to be feeling so off-balance... so... I don't know... ill, I guess, for lack of a better term. I'm wound so tight I'm half tempted to go back to one of the noisy tourist bars I passed on the way and pick a fight... chat up some drunk woman... or drink myself into oblivion. Possibly some combination of the three. I'm hot and prickly and uncomfortable in a way I can't remember being since...

Actually, never. I don't think I've ever wanted so badly to crawl out of my own skin. Or more accurately, my addled brain/heart/soul reminds me, crawl *into* Buffy's.

As I ease my carcass down on a park bench and take deep breaths to try and clear my head, I feel it again -- that same crushing dizziness that struck me in the hotel. And again, I find myself automatically peering into the shadows of the park to see if she's nearby.

What is it, I wonder, that's kicked up that feeling of being close to her, but needing so desperately to be closer? Is it this haunted city, where the phantoms I carry around in my soul break loose to cavort with the others all around me? Is it the weariness and tension of six days straight locked in a car? Is it fear of the still-unknown demon we'll be facing that's pushing my consciousness so fiercely toward the only comfort I've ever known?

I don't know. But I do know that, right this moment, as I stare up at the perfect March sky, the pregnant full blood moon cresting just over the roofs of the buildings in the French Quarter, I miss her more than I ever have before. I wish with every fiber of my being that she was here beside me, her lithe legs tucked up beneath her on the bench as she raised her face to the moon's soft crimson glow like some pagan priestess soaking in the night's magick. I wish I could put my arm around her slender shoulders and pull her warm body close to me... see her eyes sparkle with love and desire and her lips beckoning sweetly for a kiss. I wish I could let this enchantment take me over, and have somewhere to cast it. Taste the salty sheen of sweat on her skin, her hands in my hair, her mouth gently devouring mine. I'd pull her into my lap and make love to her right her, right now, in front of the dozing pigeons and the ghosts and the statue of Andrew Jackson, until we were both soaked with it... with this hunger, this passion, this night's blistering sorcery.

One of the pigeons suddenly starts, coos agitatedly, and flies away, snapping me out of my bittersweet fantasy, and I realize with no small measure of embarrassment that I must have made a sound.

God, I'm more tired than I thought, if I can just doze off on a park bench in the middle of downtown New Orleans like that. I think, considering the shape I'm in, I'm probably better off on my feet.

So I start walking again. Not back toward the hotel, but... deeper into the shadows of the seedier section of town, where there are less tourists getting plastered on overpriced liquor, and more gypsies and vampires and other denizens of the night.

The wind picks up as I find myself on South Canal Street, a half-bohemian, half Skid Row neighborhood whose alleys and sewers I haunted for a while in the 60's. It doesn't surprise me that the place hasn't changed much in 40 years. Most of this city looks more or less the same as it did at the turn of the century.

Sort of like myself, I suppose.

This part of my sojourn brings on another sensation... still the strange discomfort I've felt since our arrival, but now shot through with a sort of melancholy nostalgia. This is the first time I've returned to any of the places where I passed almost a century of living death before I met Buffy. Besides the Hyperion, of course, but that's different. All the ghosts in my home have been laid to rest, the demons driven out. The halls have been laid bare to make room for the hoards that I bring with me.

These wild streets can't be tamed or swept clean so easily. They live and breathe in their own right and refuse to be moved just because the Chamber of Commerce thinks it would make a good shopping district.

There's human life here, too, though. Couples chatting, their faces bent close together over cups of chicory coffee in a sidewalk java dive. Street musicians perched on crates, playing the blues for nickels. Merchants hawking fake Rolexes and bootleg videotapes. Old men sharing a bottle of something wrapped in a bag, sitting on the front step of the all-night grocery. Stoned college students dancing on the automobile-free cobblestones.

It's beautiful. I've forgotten how much I loved this city. At least... as much as I was able to love anything back then.

Which, naturally, brings my thoughts back to Buffy. I wonder... how would she like the Deep South? Would she fall in love with beignets or Zydeco? Would she wear the cheap, shining plastic beads and gypsy scarves that seem to hang from every surface? Would she love the scent of wisteria and the taste of Hurricanes at Pat O'Briens?

There are so many things about the world that I've always wanted to share with her. And as this old city casts its spell on me for the second time in my long life, I remember that I'll probably never get to show her even one of them.

Great. Now I'm less agitated, and more depressed.

You know, I've been trying really hard for the past four years to kick the brooding habit. I mean, when I stop to think about it, I have a lot of blessings in my life, considering my circumstances. I have a fulfilling calling that allows me to make a difference in the world. I have a beautiful home, and the company of a (usually) loving and supportive family -- including Buffy. My life has a rich texture, a taste sometimes bitter, but more often sweet. I have real hope for a brighter future that I will play an active part in creating.

Honestly, there isn't a whole lot more a man (or a vampire with a soul, especially) could ask for. I have a great deal more than a lot of people.

So why is it still not enough?

I let out a sigh that comes from deep in my soul. As childish and ungrateful as the fact may be, all the beauty and truth and grace in the cosmos just doesn't mean all that much without Buffy beside me to share them with. 

That's not to say that I don't cherish our friendship. I truly do. Just listening to her complain about how Dawn wears too much makeup, or how Spike tried to fix the clog in her kitchen sink, but only managed to make it worse are enough to may my soul practically sing with joy (not *too* much joy, though). When things in my own life seem heavy and hopeless, all I have to do is see her smile... spend a few minutes telling her about it, and that lightens my load.

But I want more. I try not to, I really do. I try to be satisfied with the miracle of what the Fates have allowed us to have, when I thought we'd never get to have anything at all. But...

God, I just... ache for her. Burn for her. I want her beside me all the time -- for thrills like this trip, or mundanities like washing the dinner dishes. I want to fight with her and make love to her until we both disintegrate from the bliss of it.

I just want *her*.

I find myself standing and staring at a payphone on the corner. Something inside of me says, 'Call her! Tell her! Do it now!', and before I know it, I'm dialing, and it's ringing, and *now* is the time. She needs to know. I have to tell her how I don't want to just be friends. I love her. I've always loved her, and only her, and all the tap dancing around one another and telling ourselves little white lies to keep each other at safe arms' distance doesn't change that one simple, fundamental fact. I want to tell her that I meant what I said in my letter, and how holding her the night we rescued Dawn felt more right than all the other moments we've shared over the past four years put together. I'm suddenly frantic with this need to share it all and share it now, because with our lives and our vocations being what they are, there might never *be* a tomorrow for us. There won't be a good time, a better time, a more convenient time than *now*, *tonight*, right this very minute.

I can hear it in my head already, "I love you, Buffy. I need you. Forget the Hellmouth. Leave Dawn with Spike. Fly out here tonight and be with me, and we'll walk beside the Mississippi and say all the things we've never said, and yell and cry and kiss in the only place on the planet with more graveyards than Sunnydale..."

"Hi. You've reached the Summers' Residence. You know what to do. And if you don't, then I have to wonder how you managed to figure out how to use a phone anyway..." "Dawn!" "Fine. Leave a boring message after the boring beep."

I hang up and stare at the receiver. Their voices are like a bucket of ice water splashing over me.

Christ! What am I *doing*? This is *deranged*! We can't be together. We *can't*. Nothing has changed about the Pandora's Box that is our relationship. I've already cracked the lock with my last letter, and now I want to take a sledgehammer to the damned thing?

What would be the point of telling her? What difference does it make how I feel... any more tonight than last week, or last year, or five years ago? She's comfortable with our intimate truce. She's satisfied with her life. Isn't that what I always wanted for her? Isn't that more than I deserve?

I turn my back on the phone and the ghosts and walk double time back to the safe lights and noise of Bourbon Street.

Safe lights and noise. How ironic is that?

So... plan A it is. A gallon of good Irish Whiskey will make me forget that my heart is screaming, my soul burning, and my skin consumed by an itch that can never be scratched. And maybe when I pass out, her ghost will finally leave me to sleep.

Gods, I'm in a foul mood.


	6. Buffy: "Anyone Know Where I Can Get This Monkey On My Back Removed?"

I think I'm lost.

And I don't mean in the metaphysical sense I've come to acknowledge lately. I mean I actually think I've wandered so far from the House of Pleasure, and taken so many different twists and turns that finding my way back has become problematic.

What kind of hunter am I?

There are lights up ahead, and I'm following them. Maybe there'll be alcohol there. I am in New Orleans after all. And maybe after a nice man buys me a nice drink (being young, pretty, and blonde *does* have its perks) someone can tell me how to get back to my hotel. Assuming they don't throw me out for being dressed in a pale blue tank top, a pair of scandalous shorts, and absolutely no undergarments.

Not that the thought of going back to the hotel really appeals all that much. All that awaits me back in the room *I* paid for is another confrontation with Spike and Dawn, moan-y-groan-y Anya and Xander, and giggly-happy Willow and Tara. The latter two I could probably ignore in favor of some much-needed sleep. Spike and Dawn, on the other hand, can't be avoided.

Clearly, my little sister ((my little girl)) hasn't listened to a damn word I've said over the past eight ((only four that weren't monk-sponsored)) years. How many times did I make it clear that vampire/human relationships just don't work out? And my vamp actually had a *soul*. She must have watched me sob my guts out over Angel a thousand times, and she's still setting herself up for that kind of pain. Worse pain, 'cause, again, SOUL.

Did she really believe, as she said so long ago, that there was no difference between Spike's chip and Angel's soul? At the time, I'd written off what she'd said to naiveté and her desire to provoke a reaction out of me. Now, I'm not so

sure.

And SPIKE!

Spike is so dead. And not just in the 'oh, I'm so mad at him I could KILL him' way normal people think of. I'm going to kill him. I knew the day would come. I'd just hoped Dawn would have gotten over her attachment ((she is not in love with him, she can't be, I won't let her be)) to him by then. 

I've been deluding myself about him. I actually believed he wanted Dawn to be safe. I'd even gotten used to him being in love with me ((fickle bastard)). And how does that selfish, evil, Billy Idol wannabe thank me? He screws my little sister! Under my own roof! While I was having a perfectly lovely ((moping and missing Angel all the time)) Spring Break.

If only he needed to breathe, I'd get such satisfaction in tightening my hands around his throat until his eyes bulged. It's just as well. Strangulation is too good for him; it would be over too fast. I'm going to put his immortality to good use and make sure he suffers for days.

Assuming, of course, Dawn doesn't throw herself across his body like the idiot girls from those period piece romantic epics.

Okay. Good. Sign. I'm not really lost. I'm in Jackson Square. See, I know where I am. I just don't know where Jackson Square is. No big. Nice man, nice drink, nice set of directions. Eureka! ((did I just think that?)) A bar.

I'm really not dressed enough to be out in public. This, too, is Spike's fault, and this, too, shall be taken out on him. Willow better not pull that "Buffy, he's defenseless, it wouldn't be right" crap again, either. Enough is enough.

Is that guy leering at me? Bite me, buddy. And if you're a vamp, *try* to bite me and you'll see the business end of whatever's wooden and handy.

Scanning the bar, I try to find an appropriate patsy to help me out. My conscience twinges a little at the idea of using anyone, but... I think my idea has to be a sound one, because the air isn't as hot as it once was -- apparently, it gets chilly here for an hour sometime after midnight.

Woah. To quote Cordelia -- which I haven't in recent memory -- hello, salty goodness.

I take a closer look, and just as I've decided tall, dark, and handsome at the bar is the most likely candidate, he turns and gives me a perfect profile shot. I freeze ((Ohgodohgodohgodohgod)) and blink a few times, hoping to clear the vision before me away. Oh, I was *so* proud of myself for not hallucinating him out of thin air in YEARS. Just goes to show that I'm not allowed to be proud of myself. No pride for Buffy. Inching a little closer, because, frankly, I just can't help myself, I listen in on the conversation the figment is having with what I hope is a real bartender.

He's clearly sloshed, whoever he is. His entire upper body weight is being held up by the elbow he's hooked on top of the bar. His chin is resting comfortably in his hand, speaking in a drunk's whisper to the man behind the bar.

There are at least a dozen empty shot glasses decorating the bar in front of him, a half-empty one in his hand, and if that really is Angel, I'm going to have a hell of a time carrying him out of here. He's heavy, and Slayer strength or no, he's two hundred and ten pounds of VERY dead weight. I remember about two years ago, when he and Spike got into a pissing contest at Caritas. It took three of us to carry Spike, and four of us to carry Angel.

A little closer . . . just a little closer, and I'll be able to hear what he's babbling about . . .

" . . . two hundred and fifty *years*. Do you have any comprehension of how long that is to live alone?"

Oh God . . .Is the figment really Angel?

The bartender's talking to the figment. "Nope, buddy. Sure don't."

The figment ((Angel?!)) slaps his glass down on the bar. "Hit me."

The bartender does. Maybe-Angel takes a sip, and I nearly smile at the fact that his coordination is so impaired that it takes him a moment to connect mouth to glass. The itchy-burn fades into the background, and I realize it's been replaced by that tingle, that surety that's lived inside me since he drank me so long ago that it's him, that he's here, and that for however long it lasts, I'm not alone.

It's just not fair how beautiful he is. He nearly doesn't recognize me for a moment, and I take his momentary confusion as opportunity to stare into his eyes without worrying about him catching me staring. They're glazed over, fogged up with the way he's clearly been beating alcohol into submission, but they're still warm, still home to me, still him.

Dangerous thoughts, why do I have nothing but dangerous thoughts around him?

"Angel?" I ask, like I'm not sure it's him. Like I could possibly mistake him for someone else. Mistaking someone else for him, sure. I see what I want to see. Can you blame me for wanting to see him? Should I blame myself more?

Which one of us is drunk again?

"BUFFY!" he cries out enthusiastically.

"Buffy," I agree. "Me Buffy, you Angel. Tell me, Angel, why are you stinking drunk?"

He either doesn't hear me, or is purposely ignoring me in favor of his new buddy, the bartender. "Look. Buffy's here. She's the one I was telling you about." I'm right next to him now, and he's looking at me fondly. "Buffy, this is..." His brow furrows, and he turns back to the bartender. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Jim."

Angel nods. "Buffy, this is my friend Jim. Jim, this is the great love of my very, very long life, Buffy." ((heart in throat yet somehow still beating and breaking into a million zillion pieces)) "Isn't she beautiful?" ((heart leaving throat as it shatters and trickles back down into place where it belongs why doesn't he just rip it out and keep it for himself, stupid thing doesn't seem to bring me anything but pain.))

"Sure is," Jim replies. I can barely hear him. All the blood in my body got together and decided to rush up to my head so it could roar in my ears. "Hi, Buffy. Can I get you a drink?"

Oh no. We can't both be drunk. The world might come to an end. Literally.

"One of us should play designated driver," I say. I can't believe I'm stringing words together into coherent sentences. "Water would be fine."

Drunktank Boy apparently doesn't agree. "Water!" he snorts. "You're in bourbon country, Buffy! Jim, get Beautiful Buffy a Bourbon." He seems to be tickled with himself, and he gives a little chuckle. "Beautiful Buffy a Bourbon."

I mouth 'no bourbon' at the bartender and gratefully accept the ice water he hands me. Hopefully, the chill will put out the fires in my belly, though somehow, I don't think ice water's going to do the trick.

Man, lust and anger do not good bedfellows make.

I've taken a seat next to Angel, and I realize what a huge mistake that is as he presses his big body against mine, and leans into me. I'm surrounded by his scent and his touch and his voice right in my ear, lower than usual, rougher with the gallon of bourbon he's consumed.

"I knew you'd come," he whispers. "How'd you get here so fast? I just called like . . ." He tilts his head down to look at his watch, and I can actually *see* his pupils trying to focus on the dial. "Two hours ago. No, wait! I didn't even leave a message, so how did you . . ." His gaze is on mine, and it's not fair, it's just NOT that he can be this drunk and disorderly and I can still want him this much. "Ah, who cares? I'm jus' glad you came." He snatches his drink up and downs it in one gulp. "Barkeep Jim! Bring me another! No, you know what? Just leave the bottle."

"Think you've had enough, pal," and I'm so glad Jim said that so I don't have to. Angel might throw down with me in this condition, and I'm not sure the Slayer in me wouldn't get a little too rough, given that the girl in me that normally protects him has apparently turned to mindless mush.

Angel scowls dangerously. "Look 'ere, boy." ((ohgodohgodohgod the brogue he never uses the brogue and it's sooooooo seeexxyyyy)) "I think I'm old enough to decide when I've had enough."

Jim slants his gaze toward me, and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, at 250, you'd think so."

Commiserating, I give Jim a knowing look. It's a good thing Angel's drunk, so no one believes the things he says. Of course, if he weren't drunk in the first place, he wouldn't be opening his big fat lush, kissable mouth . . .

Okay, I'm drifting again.

Dismissing Jim with one hand, Angel slings his free arm over my shoulders. I tense a little at the contact, but he doesn't seem to notice, and I'm relaxing in no time because he *never* touches me anymore, not unless there's been major trauma and I've so missed casual, just-because-he-wants-to contact.

"Ya know, Beautiful Buffy, I wuz jus' thinkin' about you. In the park with Andrew Jackson and the pigeons."

"Well, you know, those pigeons are excellent conversationalists," I note. "And you and Jackson have being dead in common so--"

He presses his index finger to my lips and I couldn't have formed another word if my life depended on it. He sure as hell hasn't touched my MOUTH in ANY way since that night under the tree after my mother's funeral.

"No," he murmurs drunkenly, "Shhh. I have to tell you something."

((I miss you I miss youImissyouImissyouImissyou))

I write him letters and call him on the phone on at least once a week. Dawn and I visit L.A. three or four times a year, and he brings his whole crew to Sunnydale whenever something big and ugly needs taking care of. He's more a part of my life -- my WHOLE life, not just my heart and my spirit and my soul -- now than he ever was when we were dating.

And I still miss him so goddamn much I could die.

"You shouldn't tell me anything," I make myself say. We can't go down this road. We can't. We've been there before. It's a dead end. A *literal* DEAD end.

"I have to tell you," he insists. "'Cause . . . *poof*, you never know, you know? And I want you to know . . ." He picks up his glass and scowls to find it empty. "Damn it. Whatdya gotta do to get a drink in this place? Buffy, do you wanna drink? Jim? Hey, Jim!"

Thankfully, Jim ignores him. I try to remember how to breathe. Angel apparently forgets about the drink, and I have to give another silent thanks, about whatever he was about to tell me. I really don't think my delicate state of mind can handle a big confession from him. 

"I like your shirt." Blinking, I focus on him again and find his gaze pinned to my chest. "Blue . . . like the sky. It makes your eyes so green." His gaze tracks my body and I *feel* it, like I've always felt it when he watches me. He's looking straight into my eyes now. "You have such pretty eyes. You're so beautiful, Buffy. Have I ever told you that? I'm sorry I broke your heart." Is he going to cry? He hadn't been *this* drunk at Caritas.

"It's okay," I murmur, awkwardly patting the side of his head. It's awkward because I have to stop myself from petting him the way I'd like to, from inviting him to crawl into my lap and let me hold him the way I know he needs me to. "You know I forgave you for that . . . a long time ago. I understand, I still don't like it, but I understand it, I do, and it's okay."

His head shakes violently. "No, it's not. You've always been so good to me. And you were willing to try and try and try, no matter how hard it got, and I was a lilly lave . . . a lilly lava'd . . . a lolly livered . . . a coward. I can't just . . ." His hands clench on the bar, and I feel the effort he's putting into not reaching for me. My hand is still gently stroking his hair, and I wonder if he'll be as successful as me. "I can't just be around you all the time and not . . . touch you. It's too hard."

There's such *longing* in his eyes, and I wonder if that's the way I look at him. If it is, how had he ever found the strength to walk away? There is nothing inside of me that could leave him so long as he looked at me like that. Not even to save him.

Of course, I've always been a little bit more selfish than Angel has.

"It is hard," I whisper, more than a little stunned. Not that he feels all this, but that he's letting it out, regardless of how much he's had to drink.

The palm of his hand comes up to cradle my cheek, and I sigh at the contact; lean further into the touch. I need this, I need this so badly and it's the one thing I can never, ever have . . .

"So beautiful," he whispers, grazing my lower lip with the rough pad of his thumb. I shiver at the sensation, and a shudder passes through his body in response. Just like that, we're back in sync in all the ways we've been trying to convince ourselves we don't have to be.

His hand leaves my cheek, and he grasps my fingers from his hair, clutching tightly. "We should drive to Nebraska," he says seriously, intensely.

"Nebraska," I repeat dumbly, trying to follow the logic train he's jumped on.

"Do you want to go to Nebraska? It's so pretty with the grass and the hills and everything." He frowns. "Are you itchy?" The hand not holding mine descends to his rib cage, tunnels beneath his shirt ((bare skin bare skin there's bare skin under his clothes)) and he starts scratching with jerky movements. "I've been itchy ever since we got here."

Buzz word. Itchy. Problem.

The Slayer in me is officially wide-awake and positively growling for a fight. The girl, on the other hand, is very logically deducing that he's got an itch, and I've got an itch, so maybe we have an itch together . . . you know... with scratching.

This is in no way shape or form a good thing.

But he really is cute. No -- 'Cute' is almost an insult for what he is. He's breathtaking. Exquisite. A living marble statue of some Greek God animated and given the intelligence of a predator, the soul of a poet, the heart of noble warrior, and the grace of a big, jungle cat.

It would be so incredibly easy to slide off this stool and right onto him. He's drunk, yeah, but from what little he's told me about his Drunken Whoring days as a human being, he could still take me. Hell, he's got vampire stamina and endurance to add to the score now. We could disappear into a dark, deserted corner ((the whole bar's practically dark and deserted)) and I could strip him bare and pull him inside me where he belongs . . .

Is he looking at me again? He's looking at me like he's ... thinking the exact same thing I am. Only with a little less coherency, and a little more drunken leer.

"I want you so much," he mumbles. "I want to . . ." He shakes his head, and appears to gain a single drop of the sense that has deserted him during his alcoholic odyssey. "I want a drink! JIM!"

"I think you've had enough," I say quietly. I'd better take him back to wherever he's staying. There's no way I'm letting him become a crispy critter because he passes out in the middle of Jackson Square. "Let me take you home, Angel." ((home with me home on the range home is where the heart is home is safe you're so deep in my heart I can't get you out even when I claw and scratch and rage home is where they always have to take you in))

He's shaking his head again. "Uh uh. That means Wesley snoring and Cordelia's luggage. I never wanna see that interl . . . innerluck . . . interlo . . . that LV thing ever again."

Sighing, I try to figure out how to get him out of here. In the meantime, stall: "What are you guys all doing here? Mardis Gras fun?"

Leaning into me again, Angel places a finger over his lips. "Shhhh." He inches closer still ((god he's still not close enough)), looks like he's about to whisper something . . . "DEMONS!" he rasps in the loudest whisper I've ever hard.

Jim shoots me another sympathetic look, and adds a 'nutjob' eye-roll for good measure. I grin, a little sheepishly.

"He gets all wacky when he's drunk." I gesture to Angel. "We found him running naked up and down Main Street once he'd had too much Tequila."

"Tequila's for ass pansies," Angel mutters, and I raise an eyebrow at his colorful turn of phrase. 

"Do you have a phone?" I ask the bartender, hoping to call one of the guys for help. Or maybe I could ask that concierge guy for directions back . . . somehow, I don't think Angel's going to be much help in the level headed department.

At the moment, he's hindering my ability to think at all by winding my hair around his fingers.

"Your hair," he murmurs, sifting through it gently, "it's so shiny. I always forget how shiny your hair is. Especially when the sun hits it." He grins stupidly.

"Angel, you've never actually *seen* my hair in the sun," I remind him wearily. He's making me ache for things I can't have, and I don't even get the satisfaction of walking away -- I have to help him.

"'Course I have," he snorts. "You just don't remember. On the pier that day."

God, he's completely wasted. "Okay, Arthur, let's get out of here."

He looks confused. "Arthur?"

"Pop culture reference," I explain. He still looks at me blankly. "Dudley Moore? Colorful drunk?" I shake my head. "Never mind. It's so unimportant at this juncture I can't even believe I tried to explain it."

I manage to haul one of his arms over my shoulders ((so natural to have his big body around mine why aren't we allowed to wrap up in each other like warm blankets?)) and, with him leaning against me heavily, we manage to drag ourselves out into the street. The itching that had faded the moment I stepped into Angel's presence begins to intensify. So does the heat.

Damn. This is SO not good.

"The air's so hot," he says, and normally, that wouldn't worry me. The fact that he has no body temperature and is noticing the heat, however, scares me shitless. "Are you hot?"

Fucking on fire, but I don't think that's what he means. 

"Yeah," I mutter, "it's muggy. New Orleans likes to make with the mug."

Again, he's leaning heavily on me. I should hate it more than I do. Like, a lot more. Really, I need to work on hating it *at all*.

"Buffy," he sighs, "I missed you. I'm sorry about . . . all the stuff. The letter and everything." He's swaying a little, but I manage to keep him steady ((who's going to keep me steady?)) with a firm arm around his waist. "I swear," he continues, his speech remarkably only mildly slurred, "I only wanted to make you happy; but I'm cursed, so you're cursed, and now the whole damn thing's just gone to hell." He makes that same near-chuckle sound he made earlier. "Hell. Been there before. Not fun."

I take the same route through Jackson Square I followed on the way in. I'm only going to need his help ((is he going to be of any help at all, or are we going to have to seek shelter in a cave? oooo, Angel in a cave . . . Angel naked in a cave . . . Angel naked in a cave with chains and a whip . . .))

"When I was human, I was a drunken, womanizing lout." I'm very thankful to him for interrupting the demented side-trip my lusty, itchy brain had taken me on. I try to concentrate on his words. Angel has never talked much about his time as a human being. I know he had a sister, and that he and his father had issues because Angel wasn't exactly what you'd call an upstanding guy. And that's it. Three years of fairly close contact, two of sporadic, and three years of what, to me, has been deep, abiding friendship, and that's the extent of what I know about his human life.

Maybe there are a few upsides to Arthur after all . . .

"Now look at me," he continues, gesturing wildly with the arm not secured around my shoulder. "Just a drunken lout. What a step up." He shakes his head. "I'm not good enough for you, Buffy. All the atonement in the world'll never change that."

"You're not a drunken lout," I'm compelled to soothe him. "You're just . . . drunken."

"Oh, I'm drunk," he snorts.

"Fine, you're drunk," I concede. "But you're not a lout." I wrinkle my nose up at him. "What are you doing getting drunk, anyway?"

"Drowning my sorrows," he sighs, then sways again, and I just narrowly avoid us both toppling down on top of each other on the ground. Why did I avoid that again . . .? "I need to sit down."

"No, no sitting," I object, pulling on his arm to keep him from dropping right there in the middle of the street. "If you sit, I won't be able to get you back up again, and if I can't get you back up again -- poof. Extra Crispy Angel and that is so not a good."

He pauses, and the look he gives me . . . I feel like I'm being devoured and worshipped and longed for all at once. I probably am. I'd probably be more flattered by it if he weren't bobbing and weaving so unstably.

"I can't believe you're really here," he comments softly, his words slurring a bit more. "S'like magick. I wished you were here, and here you are."

"Here I am," I agree with forced cheer. "Dressed, pressed, ready and willing to escort you back to your hotel. As soon as you tell me how to find it . . ."

Apparently, my topic of conversation is uninteresting to him.

"God . . . you're so beautiful." I nearly snap, and tell him that not only has he told me that already tonight, but that he's told me that more tonight than he has over the course of our complicated, bloody, eight year relationship. I contain the urge. Barely.

"Thank you," I say sincerely. "But we need to concentrate on--"

"I always forget how pretty you are until I see you again," he continues, as though he'd never been interrupted. He seemed to be focusing his gaze on my mouth, and I unconsciously lick my lips. His eyes don't quite focus, but I think he shivers a little. God knows I do. Is he going to kiss me? Am I going to let him kiss me? "I mean, I know in my memory . . ." Wait, he's moving away? Why, with the moving away?

He's nearly three feet away now, just when I was ten seconds from jumping him. It's like he KNOWS. Hell, maybe he does. Who am I to say what's possible?

Arthur isn't done. And he's apparently decided to babble his way out of what nearly happened. 

"And, well, of course, in my dreams you're stunning, but that's different, because you're naked. Not always naked, but . . . you know, mostly. Women are different with their clothes on, you know? Especially you. Obviously, but . . . I mean . . . " I just decided he isn't trying to talk his way out of anything -- he's simply lost his mind. The gallons of bourbon he consumed have completely eroded all the neurons that once fired in his brain. And still, it continues: "Oh, earlier, I was thinking about Bangkok in 1876 and they had this theater where you could go and watch Tantrics perform positions from the Kama Sutra. That would be incredible, because, you know, Slayer dexterity and all and I *am* pretty strong. I think we could pull most of them off."

I'm pretty sure I resemble a big red fish, gasping for air, but I can't be sure because all I see, all I can focus on, is him and the fact that he just suggested we try Tantric sex together. He seems to come to the same conclusion at the same time, because he shakes himself a little.

"I mean," he hastily adds, "if you wanted to. If we were more than friends, which we're not." ((DON'T FUCKING SAY THAT!)) "And then there's the curse, of course. You know, I shoulda never eaten that gypsy. She wasn't even that good. Kinda thin, and a little tough. Damn Darla and her damn midnight birthday snacks."

Okaaaaay . . . let's see, I can either be turned on, freaked, grossed out, or a combination of the above.

Door number four, please, Monty . . .

Naturally, turned on seems to be more predominant. Damn it. He still wants me. God, he still wants me and I still want him and this is bad, bad, bad, because we've been down the goddamn road before and haven't I already mentioned DEAD END?! Why can't I get it through my stupid head that I can't have him the way I want him, and be happy with the piece of him that I *can* have?

I think I've been quiet for a little too long, and my eyes are hurting so I think they're WAY too wide open. The way he's looking at me, half-guilty and nervous, I think I've just hit the nail on the head.

"I havta learn to keep my big mouth shut," he mumbles.

"Right, 'cause you're Share Guy," I can't help but snark. I don't know where the sudden bitterness and anger come from, but they bubble up inside me and spill out of my ((unkissed)) lips before I can stop them. "Don't beat yourself up about it, Angel. I can listen to anything you have to say, though God knows you'll never bother to say any of it."

He halts the tiny amount of progress we've made through Jackson Square, wearing that spooky, deadly serious look on his face, something I would have thought impossible in his sloshed state.

"What do you want to know?" he asks earnestly. "Ask me anything, and I'll tell you the truth."

There are a lot of thoughts in my mind right now, the clearest of which being 'I have *got* to get Angel drunk more often'. I feel a little guilty. Is it right to take advantage of him like this? He's intoxicated, aka so *totally* not in his right mind, and I'm trying to benefit from that by getting the answers to some of the deeper, darker secrets we've both buried because they hurt too much to live with.

We do live with them, though. At least, I do. I'm pretty sure he does. He feels things so deeply; how could he not? And there are so many things I really have always wanted to ask him, but haven't, because he'd say anything to spare my feelings and I want the *truth* . . .

Is he really serious about this?

"Anything?" I ask timidly, with no small degree of fear. 

He nods gravely. Graveness always spells trouble with him. "Anything," he confirms.

"Okay." I take a deep breath. Angel's open to me. He'll tell me anything I want him to. It's like somebody just wrote me a blank check and told me to go nuts at Neiman Marcus or an antique weapons sale.

There are a lot of closed doors in our relationship. Stuck a sword through his gut, sent him to hell for a few centuries of torment: closed a door. He came back, I didn't know how to react, so I pretended I was just helping him because I felt obligated to, dated the boy I'd met while he was gone, and tried to be THAT Buffy, whoever she was: closed a door.

I save his life by offering myself to him, and he takes me to a place I never knew existed. Then, without a word, without even a lousy goodbye or a 'thanks for the blood' he takes off. He leaves me so I can be THAT Buffy again, with all the boys and sunshine and sex a girl could ever want, and I realize I can never have those things because I'm more trapped in the darkness than he is: closed a door.

Waking up to find my new ((first)) lover gone from HIS bed. Stumble blindly through the day wondering, worrying, questioning, missing, loving, aching. Finally find him again, so relieved to have him SAFE that I don't notice how different he is. He spits on me, on what I'd given him, on what we'd given each other. He makes me feel used and worthless and later, when I learn it wasn't REALLY him, it doesn't make how much it hurt, how deep it cut, go away: slammed a door, locked it tight and swallowed the key.

Might as well go for the gold, Summers.

"Was I . . . was it . . ." Suck it up! The worst that can happen is he confirms my worst fears . . . oh, God, if he confirms my worst fears, I'll just die. "Was *I* not good?" I finish in a rush.

Great. Now it's out there and I can't take it back. Idiot, idiot, idiot. All this unsatisfied lust has totally eroded my brain. How could I have asked him that? I was a virgin, for godsakes. Of *course* I didn't measure up to the THOUSANDS of other women he's been with over the past two and a half centuries.

Drunk Boy apparently is too befuddled to get it. "Good?" he asks, his brow furrowed.

Oh, thank God. He doesn't understand. Quick, make something up. Cover that inane stupidity you just spewed out of your idiot, reckless mouth. Anything. Say you were worried about your spinning kick technique. Your French pronunciation sucks. ANYTHING! THINK!

My mouth opens, and I'm all set to give a lame excuse, and: "Good. Opposite of bad. Which is it? I can take it, Angel, I swear. I mean, it's not like it's supposed to be fireworks right out of the gate, and I know there were less than ideal circumstances, and you've been around for a *long* time, longer than I like to let myself think about, actually ((whores lots of whores and barmaids and vampires and god only knows what else kind of dominatrix leather wearing psychopathic demons into pain and endurance and way more experienced than I ever have a prayer of being oh god shut up shut up just shut up just stop talking close your mouth shut up shut up shut up)) and . . . was I good?"

So much for plan A. Moving onto plan B which was the original plan A -- get information from the drunken dead guy.

Angel still looks baffled, and I decide to ditch the whole plan right now, no matter what my stupid mouth and my stupid heart think. Right as I'm about tell him never mind, some blissfully sober part of his brain kicks into place, even though he's still staring at me with a confusion that only occurs as a result of severe intoxication.

"You mean . . . the night we made love?"

I actually roll my eyes at him, and I feel a little guilty -- it's not his fault he . . . well, actually, it *is* his fault. I didn't see anyone holding a stake to his heart if he didn't drink another crate of bourbon. Idiot. We're both idiots.

"Yes, Angel," I snap, "*that* night."

"That's . . ." he begins, and glances at me. "Do you really need to ask, Buffy? I mean . . ." His hands make this weird gesture I can't begin to decipher. It's almost manic, except he's too sluggish to get to manic so his arms just sort of twirl like a depressed windmill. "Isn't it obvious? And I answered this question already. In every possible way, language, and I think, in several positions that even the Tantrics won't even attempt."

I think I speak for everyone present when I say, 'huh'? I'd like to think of something more eloquent, but my mouth's run away with itself again, and asks him, "Huh? Am I missing a page, here?"

His head shakes and he windmills again. God, I hope that's just a gesture he's picked up while he's drunk and not something I'm going to have to deal with for the rest of my life . . .

He overcompensates on the windmill and staggers away from me a little.

"Right," he says, like he's remembering something. "I keep forgetting you don't remember the Hershey's Syrup. Okay. Lemme put it to you this way . . . you know those two little words that pretty much spell our doom?"

Why do I suddenly want to eat Hershey's syrup off his ass? Oh, right, I *always* want to eat Hershey's syrup off his ass. What did he ask me?

"President Bush?" I try for flippant, when really, I'm just confused.

Scowling ((he's actually *scowling* at me god he's cute and funny and I love him so fucking much)), he replies (a bit shortly, if I do say so myself), "*Perfect*. *Happiness*. Jeeze, Buffy!"

I scowl back at him, because I don't like it when he scowls at me and he can just see how it feels. Even if he's too drunk to really notice.

"Well, excuse me! You're not exactly Coherency Boy tonight!" I shake my head at him. I can't *believe* how irritating he is ((I love you I love you I love you I love you)) sometimes. "And you're stalling! Just answer the damn question." I hold up my hands. This is ridiculous and stupid and childish and *I'm* ridiculous, and stupid, and childish. "You know what, on second ((or third or fourth by now)) thought, *don't*. It was a stupid question from stupid me and I just remembered that I don't want to know the answer."

Great, now I'm going to start crying. Why can't I ever keep from crying around him? Maybe if I hadn't cried with him so much he never would have thought I was better off without him . . .

Woah. That's the most unproductive thought there's ever existed and I'm erasing it from my memory right now. It's gone. No way, no how am I going there . . .except that I'm already here. And now I have to face the very real possibility that Angel got it in his head to leave me because I was too whiny and immature and sob-girl around him and if that's true then I just want to die right here, right this second.

And then, I can't remember what I'd been thinking, because drunk or no, Angel is still the fastest, most graceful creature I've ever known. His arms are around me before I realize he's moved and his lips are on mine before I can vocalize the surprised 'Angel?' that had immediately flown to my mouth. The expression 'kiss you breathless' fleetingly goes through my mind, but I dismiss it. This is somewhere beyond breathless. I was right. When he kisses me, I want to die.

Any minute I expect him to pull away, and apologize, and babble something; but he doesn't. He just keeps on kissing me, fiercely, dangerously, lovingly, for a long . . . long . . . long . . . long time. He pulls back from me, but doesn't apologize or babble or let me go at all.

"I lost my soul when we made love," he whispers, and I can smell the bourbon on his not-breath and taste it in my mouth but it still doesn't come close to overpowering the indescribable *Angel* taste and *Angel* smell I feel like he's engraved on every inch of me. "It was the happiest moment in my entire life," he continues.

"Never, ever before in my existence, had I felt so . . . right. Complete. Being part of you was . . . like coming home to a place I'd never been before. Do you understand? God . . ."

Letting me go, he steps back a little and I can tell he's upset. I'm a little upset myself. And stunned. And . . . God, I don't know what, but I'm sure I wish he hadn't stopped kissing me.

"We went through this," he mutters, and I'm pretty sure he's talking to himself more than me. "It's not right that you don't remember." He turns toward me again, completely focused on my face. Once, before I'd been forced to live without it, that had unnerved me a little. "Perfect Happiness, Buffy," he repeats again, much nicer than he said it a moment ago. "Think about that, and then ask me again if you were 'good.'"

I should be stunned speechless by that kiss, followed immediately by those words. Most girls spend their whole lives waiting for a guy to say that to them, and mean it. I can clearly remember a time in our lives when I would have slayed a hundred vampires in one night to hear Angel declare, so unequivocally, what I mean to him.

But my skin wasn't itching then. I wasn't snapping at my friends for no good reason then. I hadn't just found my little sister underneath the bane of my existence, then. And then, I sure as hell hadn't wanted to punch him for not offering to FUCKING TALK TO ME until he was so drunk he didn't know any better, then.

"That's really romantic, dumbass, but it still doesn't answer my question!" I grab his arm and haul him around to face me. I faintly hear something pop. Good. I hope I ripped his goddamn arm out of its socket. "I don't want to know how much you loved me, or how good I made your *soul* feel," I continue, and oh, God, I wish I could make myself shut up but it's like I don't have control over my own body. "I want to know how good I made your *body* feel. I want to know how good I made your *dick* feel."

I really do think I'd be mortified if I weren't half-insane from this burning itch just below the surface of my skin. 

He blinks at me stupidly. "What? My . . . what?"

That's it. Gloves are coming off. If I'm going to lose my marbles, I'm gonna toss them all right out the window.

Getting right in his face, I make sure he can feel my breath against his chin. I have to crane my neck up to look at him, but it's worth it. "Your dick," I carefully enunciate, "cock. Penis. Shaft. Manhood. The thing between your legs. Just because you've apparently chosen to block out the fact that your girlfriend for a hundred and fifty years was a HOOKER, don't think for a SECOND that it has EVER left MY mind."

Damn it, I'm not even angry at him, why am I yelling at him, I'm just so . . .ANGRY. At EVERYTHING. At the fact that I can't have him, at the fact that I love him so much that it's killing me every minute he isn't touching me and what the HELL does DARLA have to do with ANY of this? Maybe I really have lost it.

Glancing up at Angel, I realize he'd been slowly backing away from me every time I ticked off a euphemism for his crotch. Oh my God, what the hell just came out of my mouth?! He must be horrified with me . . God, that look on his face, he looks horrified ...

"Are you SERIOUS?!" he barks. "DARLA? You're comparing yourself to DARLA?!" He shakes his head in disbelief, which causes him to stumble a little, and all I can think is STOP SAYING HER NAME! and I've clearly lost my mind. 

I watch him take breaths he doesn't need, like he's trying to collect himself. It's rather impressive, given how much I remember what it felt like to be drunk ((beer so very bad)). He couldn't want to do anything more than pass out right now, but he's still trying. For me. 

I hate the life that doesn't let me love him the way I want.

"Okay," he mutters, "Okay. You want to know how that night made me feel? How's this?" He stalks toward me and I think I should really be afraid of him, but I'm not. If possible, I feel more turned on than I've been since the minute I set foot in this city ((not good not good not good.)) and his VOICE, God, his voice is all low and growl-y.

I've been perpetually wet from the moment I saw it was really him, *smelled* it was really him, but my inner-thighs are soaked at the sound of his voice.

He's still talking, way up in my face the way I was in his. I kind of like it. It's amazing, being this close to him again when we've spent most of the last three years being polite-distance friends.

"I dreamt about that night when I was *soulless*," he growls at me. "I *still* dream about it. I get hard just thinking about it. It was so fucking good, I thought I was going to burst at the seams. Just the memory of it makes me want to .. ." He's so close ((ohgodohgodohgod)) I want him this close all the time and is he shaking 'cause I think he's shaking I can't believe *I* make *him* shake the way he's always made me shake . . .

"I want to throw you down right here in the street and drill you until you scream. I want to hear all those little whimpering, mewling noises you made that night. You were so good, I'm half-willing to LOSE my soul again, just to have you. You were so. Fucking. Good. That when I was with Darla, I was *pretending* she *was* you. How's that, huh? Does that answer your question?"

I have to speak after that? I have to form a thought after that? I feel shaky like he looks.

"Uh . . ." Oh, great. Really eloquent, Summers. "Yeah. Yes. I mean . . . I didn't know you . . . You always seem so . . ." To think HE was the one I expected to babble. "God, Angel, I can only remember one time when it really even seemed to BOTHER you all that much that we couldn't . . . be together like that." And like striking a match, all that hurt confusion I'd felt every time he held me and let me go again without clutching at me like I longed to clutch him; every time he kissed me without tumbling me to the ground; all that self-control I admired and nearly hated him for, it all came tumbling out.

"It killed me on a daily basis," I tell him, letting him see the anguish I'd felt then. I want him to see, I need him to understand. "And you seemed FINE. God, I woke up humping a PILLOW almost every night for a year, and you throw off 'safe as houses' quotes when you kiss me! When you left, you said *I* deserved someone who could make love to ME. Not ONCE did you tell me if that was something YOU needed. You put me up on a pedestal from day one, and for all you let me see, I was too 'pure' to sully with such . . ." I can just hear him saying it, in that mournful, noble voice and it makes me want to scream. "Carnal, sinful thoughts. How was that supposed to make me feel, huh? Did you even THINK about that?!"

He slouches, like I've just hit him, and I'd feel guilty if it weren't for the blinding rage I feel. 

"That's . . . not true," he whimpers, blinking. "I never . . . Buffy . . . I'm sorry. I just . . . it's not that I thought . . ." He sighs deeply. "I really want to sit down."

Angel starts to drop where he stands, and I grab him wearily. I almost wish I didn't still love the stupid jerk. Almost. Except that I do, and even though it's killing me, that love still warms me when I take it out of its tightly locked box and let it spread through me. 

"Angel, you can't sit down . . ." I keep a firm hold on his arm. I'll be damned if he dies when I'm in his physical presence because I couldn't keep him from falling asleep outdoors.

Looking up at me, his gaze is woeful and hungry all at once. I'm so familiar with the feeling. "That year was worse than all the time I spent in Hell," he confesses. "I can't . . . how was I supposed to tell you how I was feeling when...the only way I could stay away from you was *not* to tell you?" He shakes his head. "If I told you half the things I thought about doing to you . . . About the dreams I had -- have -- you'd never speak to me again. And the whole curse thing . . .it was easier just to leave it alone. And yes, I did want you to have someone who could make love to you. Buffy, you're so beautiful. So incredibly sensual and . . ." He sighs with a different sort of woe this time, the same kind I feel bubbling up inside of me.

Why can't he get that I feel for him everything that he feels for me? That I think he's beautiful and sensual and that he deserves someone to worship him, too? I just want that someone to be me, and I'm just selfish enough to not want ANYONE to do it if I can't.

Again, he's not done.

"You should be worshipped," he murmurs, and I almost can't tell he's drunk. Almost. "Your body is . . . incredible, and . . . You know that I was thinking about making love to you the night of your mother's funeral?" He reaches up touch my face, and he's moving closer to me again, God, why does he ever go away? "I think about touching you all the time. And not just touching you. And . . . this would be so much easier if you were some strumpet barmaid. Couldn't you ask an easier question?"

Then, after a moment of silence, during which he just stares at me, he whispers, "I need to kiss you again." 

Okay, that's the best idea I've ever heard in the entire world and I don't care what it means or what it could lead to -- I lean in and kiss him. And I make it count.

My mind is totally muddled and mired with lust and confusion and need and pain. The taste of him and the feel of him consumes me, like always, and I go about trying to re-memorize everything about him. Flicking my tongue over his front teeth, I moan as he opens his mouth wider for me. Nibble at his lower lip, his upper, then slide my tongue up to caress the roof of his mouth, the backs of his teeth.

He makes this SOUND that's guttural and high-pitched all at once, a groan-whine hybrid that makes me suck at his lips harder. That sound is way more animal than human, and he starts to play back with me. He's never been passive when we kiss, but he's always sort of let me set the pace. Not now. Now, he's attacking my mouth and I love it as he gives as good as he gets.

When he finally pulls back, he looks at me with such intensity in his eyes that I'm tempted to swoon like some idiot romance novel heroine.

"I . . . Buffy, I . . ."

The last time he looked at me like this and said my name like that it was because he was trying to work up the courage to tell me he loved me. Does he still love me? He says he does, but he's drunk, so . . .

"Yeah?" I ask, breathless.

"I . . . 'm not . . . feeling very well." He swallows stiffly. Like, 'I-think- I'm-going-to-puke' stiffly.

Grimacing, I look up at the sky, then back to his face. He really doesn't look too good. Can vampires hurl? 

There's a fluttery, maternal butterfly that lives inside me. It was born when Mom died and I had to take care of Dawn. It's flourished over the years I've spent loving my little sister like a daughter, the years I've spent watching over her.

As I look at Angel, so beaten and tired and sick, that butterfly starts beating its wings at the horny, raging beast that had taken control of my body earlier. I place a hand on Angel's shoulder.

"Honey," I prod gently, "You need to get inside. Can you tell me where you're staying, and how to get there?"

The cultured, 250-year-old love of my life glances up. "Dunno. Where are we?"

Sighing, I pat the side of his head, trying to soothe him. My mood seems to have done a complete one-eighty. All I want right now is to comfort him, and make sure he's safe. "Jackson Square."

He nods. "Kay. It's . . . far." Angel just said 'Kay'. God I'm scared.

Except that I'm not. I'm not even a little bit scared and *that* should scare me. All I am is happy to be near him again, desperate to tear his clothes off and bite and suck and lick every inch of his body, and incredibly worried about him. He may have been a whoring, drunken lout in his human days, but I know for a fact that Angel v. 2.0 doesn't indulge in . . . well, anything.

Tomorrow's going to be another century in hell for him.

Helping him to sling his arm over my shoulders again, I squint up at the sky that already seems to be lightening with the approaching false dawn. Okay, so maybe I am a little scared -- but not for any of the dozens of reasons I should be.

"How far is . . . far? Because if it's far, far, we're going to have to find somewhere to stay around here, unless you've got some new mega-sunblock."

Angel shakes his head at me. "Not crispy far. Long walk far." He takes a step, then does a stumble that completely belies his status as a graceful, deadly predator. I catch him before he can hit the ground and steady him as best I can. He grins at me. "Forgot how handy Slayer strength is." He squints up at the street signs. "Bourbon Street. I'm staying there. The hotel . . . has a lot of stairs. Did you know Cordelia carries more luggage than the Queen of England?" Then he starts to sing some song I've never heard.

I've never heard him sing before . . . and I don't think I ever want to again. At least not this loudly. 

"Ohhhhhh . . . there's the wonderful love of a beautiful maid, and the love of a staunch, true man . . . And the love of a baby that's unafraaaaaaaid -- All've existed since time began . . .But the most wonderful love--" he focuses on me, "Come on, Buffy, sing with me" then goes right back to that awful caterwauling without missing a beat, "the love of all loves . . . even greater than the love for Mother, is the infinite, passionate love . .. of one dead drunk for anoooootheerrrrrr." He starts laughing hysterically and I wonder who this is, and what he's done with my noble, stoic, beautiful vampire.

I also start moving him along. If he's going to destroy my eardrums, we might as well make some headway toward the hotel. Besides -- sunlight bad. 

"One dead drunk for anooootheerrr . . . even greater than the love for moooootttthherrrrrr." He burps. Yet another thing I didn't realize vampires could do. "Sorry. 'Scuse me. Oh! Up there. The concierge is a little . . prick."

"Yeah, that seems to be going around with the concierge's of New Orleans."

I'm really not sure what horrifies me more -- his singing voice, or the fact that he was singing in the first place. It doesn't really matter, either way, because if he ever sings again I may be forced to stake him. No doubt I'll have to plunge a stake through my own heart a few minutes later, but dear God, at least the world will be forever spared that SOUND he makes.

Bourbon Street sign. Yes. Finally, direction of some kind. He *has* to get inside soon, he has to be *safe* . . .

"Left or right?"

He's frowning, and from the look on his face, I think he's actually trying to remember which one's left and which one's right. He stares down at his shoes, and my suspicions are confirmed. Damn it, why does he have to be so cute? I just know that if he weren't this cute we wouldn't have the problems we do . . .

"Right," he says, "two blocks. See the harlequin with the pink ribbon thing? Landmark. 'S right there."

Then he starts mumbling something about how he had a lot more stamina when he was alive, which seems wrong somehow, because he doesn't really have a bloodstream persay and the alcohol should have been through his system by now . . .

Drunk Angel is creepy. And, admittedly, really funny. And sexy. Although I think the sexy is a by-product of the Angel, because I always think he's sexy, even when he's covered in demon goop and did he say a harlequin with the pink ribbon thing?

No. He did not say that, and even if he did, it's fine, there's like, a thousand hotels near the one we're staying at. Dawn mentioned it while we were unpacking. It's hotel central. Lots of places for my sexy, beautiful vampire to be staying that are NOT the same hotel I'm at. 

I have to stop thinking of him as mine. He's not mine. He doesn't get to be mine. He's not *allowed* to be mine. 

But I *want* him to be mine. He *feels* like he's mine. God knows I've belonged to him pretty much since the first time he smirked at me. Definitely after the first time he saved my life. By the time he'd actually kissed me, I would have laid down by his feet and died if he asked me to. I found out he was a VAMPIRE and, once the initial (and totally understandable, I might add) shock had worn off . . . I didn't care. The guy I *really* liked ((lovedlusted)) was my mortal enemy and the only big thought in my head was 'does that mean I can't kiss him again?'

Back then, I never would have thought we'd come to this: him, stumbling, babbling, adorably drunk, and me, horny, in lovelust, supporting his considerable weight as I try to keep him from becoming a crispy critter. I literally can't remember a time when I haven't wanted him, when this all- consuming loveneed hasn't colored every thought, emotion, and memory. It's like everything that makes me, me, exists with new shades he's cast me in.

Besides, he's all vulnerable right now and it would be so easy to push him to the ground, taste him again, taste every inch of him. I have the insane desire to rip off his clothes and wrap my lips around his cool, hard cock. I've never tasted it, never felt him move in my mouth, and I want to, I want that power over him, I want to give him that pleasure, and I want to taste every last drop as *I* make *him* lose control. It would be so easy, and he probably wouldn't lose his soul . . . he's too confused to really know what's going on, and I could lick him and suck him and love him and make him come until the sun exploded . . . sun! False dawn! Must move faster . . .

I'm so intent on getting us back to the hotel before sunrise, it takes me a few seconds to realize he's stopped. "Stop. Here."

((nononononononononono))

"Here?" My voice is so small, even I can barely hear it. "Are you sure it's not maybe . . . " I point out ANY other hotel but the one we're standing in front of, "There?"

Looking toward the hotel I'm pointing at, he screws up his face in concentration. He glances back at the building we're standing in front of. Peering into the lobby, he resembles a very drunk Peeping Tom. A Peeping Tom I would love to have peeping at me. He could come to my window and watch me sleep . . .maybe slip inside my room, crawl into bed with me . . .

He's pointing. And growling. God, he's growling and I've just redefined the term 'wet and ready.' 

Indicating the concierge, he sneers, "No, here. Tha's the little prick. Lookit 'im. Prick. Doesn't like vampires, I can tell. I'd eat 'im if I didn't have a soul."

Of course. Of fucking course. I'm sure it's extremely ironic that the two people who aren't allowed to take ANY pleasure in each other BOTH end up staying at the House of Pleasure. 

I hope whoever coined the term 'irony' had a slow, painful death. With lots of screaming. And sharp objects.

"Reign it in, Cujo," I tell him wearily. "I'm not in the mood to piss the concierge off; I get the feeling he knows something about why we're both apparently here."

Grunting something that isn't words, Angel lets me drag him inside. He snarks something that I don't hear, then begins a horrifying rendition of Danny Boy as the concierge gives us both a nasty smirk. Either I'm feeding off Angel's hostility, or that guy really is starting to piss me off, because suddenly, I want him dead.

"I hate that little prick," Angel mumbles as we head toward the bank of elevators, and I want to pat his arm, and say 'Honey, go ahead and kill him if it's just going to upset you for the rest of the night.'

I think I suck at being the good-hearted hero. All I've wanted to do since we got here is kill my friends and fuck my vampire. I'd even be willing to let my friends live if Angel would just slam me against this wall, rip into me with fingers and fangs and cock until I screamed myself hoarse. God that would feel good . . .

"You know, I remember when elevators were invented," he says and I jump. It's dangerous how close he is, given the insane thoughts I'm having.

Absentmindedly, I scratch at the skin of my abdomen. It yields zero relief, so I slip my hand beneath the cotton tank-top I'm wearing. Oh, that's better. If only I could scratch everywhere at once . . . if only I could ask Angel to scratch me everywhere at once . . . with his mouth . . . only you can't scratch with your mouth so maybe he could just licksuckbitedrink until everything stopped itching...

"Elevator's here," I squeak out loud, trying to distract my mind, at least until we get in and out of the confined space. How stupid am I, willingly getting into a confined space with the man I lust?

He nods. "First time I went in one, Dru screamed all the way up to the eighth floor."

Rolling my eyes, I try to stop feeling as homicidally jealous as I do. "Thus forever shattering Drusilla's cool, calm, and sane façade," I snark bitchily. I feel everything inside me soften with affection when I glance up at him to see that he can barely keep his eyes open. I muscle him into the elevator (no easy feat) and lean him up against the far wall. "Come on, big guy," I coax, "what floor?"

((don'tbefourteendon'tbefourteen'don'tbefourteen))

While he squints at the numbers on the elevator panel, I try to breathe. There's just no way it's fourteen. Fate hates me, that's true, but no one could hate me THAT much. I couldn't get to sleep when all I could hear was my friends having sex through the paper-thin walls. If I knew he was on the same floor I was, his big, hard, gorgeous body all prone and vulnerable on a bed no more than a hundred feet from me...

He hands me a key and slumps against the wall. Apparently, the vision thing isn't working out so well for him. I glance down at it. 1406. Kill me now.

"'S hard to believe I used to do this *every* night."

Respond, respond, you should respond to that, gentle, teasing, light, "You weren't such an old man then," good, goodgoodgood oh GOD we're on the same floor, the same fucking floor and he's EIGHT DOORS DOWN from me.

Half chuckling, he replies, "Wasn' dead, then, either. I'm sorry, Buffy."

Sighing, I lean back against the elevator wall. I know I should put some distance between us, but I've never been able to do the 'should' thing around him. I've only ever been able to manage the 'must' thing. I lean against him without putting any weight on him, because then we'd both fall over. 

"What are you sorry for, Angel?" I'm so tired of hearing him apologize to me. "I'm the one who stared this whole . . . *thing* tonight, and I don't even have the truly good excuse of being drunk on my ass."

Lolling his head to the side, he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. "But I'm the one who's drunk. I can't even hold a decent conv . . . confr . . . can't even talk to you like a human being without picturing you naked, and still, here you are. Come four thousand miles to rescue me from a bar." He shakes his head. "Then I yell at you, and then I attack you. 'S not right."

Heaving another sigh, I let my head roll to the side until it touches his shoulder. God, I fit here, in the hollow of his shoulder. I was born to curl up in his arms and fall asleep like this. I was born so he could find comfort in me, and me in him. How is it possible for that feeling to be so wrong?

"That's true," I tell him with weary affection. "It is troublesome having a sexy, handsome vampire who loves me picturing me naked all the time. Very icky." I glance up at his profile. "You're not going to remember any of this tomorrow, are you?"

One of his arms wraps around me, and he presses his forehead against my hair, giving me a squeeze. Angel has always given good squeeze. "'Sprob'ly for the best, donchu think?" He sighs. "This is nice. I miss this." He gives me another squeeze. "Not the drunk part," he adds quickly, "but the arm around Buffy part."

I can't help but smile, and think that I've missed the arm around Buffy part, too. Before I can contemplate further, the ancient elevator jerks to a stop. Angel nearly falls down, but I steady him, due largely in part to the aforementioned arm around Buffy. The doors open and I glance at the key again.

"At least you're on the opposite end from me," I mutter. The phrase 'thank heaven for small miracles' briefly occurs before I shove it back into the box of platitudes that my mom taught me when I was little.

Frowning at me, Angel gives off the impression that he's a little displeased with being so far away from me. Tough, buddy. I'm this close to jumping you in the *hallway*. I can't know you're lying in BED ten feet away.

"You don't have to go all that way," he protests. "You can stay with me if you want." He can't be this guileless. I don't care if he's drunk, he's GOT to be putting me on. "Send Wesley to go sleep in your room." He leans in toward me conspiratorially. "He snores, you know. You don't snore. You just make these sort of whimpery mewly sniffly sounds in your sleep. And you smile a lot . . ." He looks sad like I feel. "Or at least . . . you used to. Maybe I should go the rest of the way by myself."

As tempting as it is to turn around and leave him to his own devices, I can't do it. He needs me, and I've never been able to stay away from him when he's needed me, whether he wanted me with him or not. I look at him sternly.

"There are windows in these halls and I will not have you collapsing where a patch of light can hit you." There. That sounds reasonable, and responsible, and all those other words I'm supposed to be. It doesn't sound like I'm so desperate to remain by his side that I'd kill someone if they tried to take me away right now. "And I don't think you're going to have to worry about anyone snoring. You're going to pass out so hard a truck ramming through the lobby downstairs, causing the building to collapse, wouldn't disturb you."

Grinning down at me, he pulls me closer to his side. "Tha's a very good point." He sniffs at my hair. That should not turn me on the way it does. The snuffling, ecstatic noises he's making shouldn't . . . oh, who the hell am I kidding?

"I'd really like you to stay, though," he continues as my brain melts to mush. "You can have the bed, and I'll sleep on the floor. I jus' don' want you to vanish now -- Poof -- sort of like you appeared."

"I don't think that would be a good idea." ((don't listen to me holdmefuckmeloveme)) I let myself lean into him and inhale the skin left open by the collar of his shirt for a precious second, then pull away. It *hurts* to move away from him. "Come on. You. Bed. *Alone*."

He's pouting as we reach the door. I have to admit, it's cute when he points. It would look pathetic on a lot of men, but he does it so rarely that it just makes me want to hold him all the more. He leans against the door for support, then rolls his eyes and indicates inside the room. "Can you hear that? 'S like a goddamn bear." 

Dutifully, I press my ear to the door, then wince. It IS bad. Who knew Wes completely lost the proper polite British demeanor thing when he slept? I've heard wild boars with more decorum.

"You don't want to come back to my room," I tell him flatly. "Spike and Dawn are in there -- assuming Spike hasn't had the good sense to flee -- and I have to kill him. You need rest. Killing Spike will not relax you."

Now he's frowning at me. "Sure it would. And...why haven't you killed him yet, anyway? I never got that." He looks back at the door and shrugs. "We can always kill Wesley."

"No, we cannot," I say firmly. I know he's only kidding -- mostly -- but I still feel the need to be the voice of reason. "God, have you always been this homicidal when you're drunk?"

And yes, I'm fully aware I'm avoiding the Spike question because I don't have a good answer. Stop being so nosey. My head hurts.

Again, he shrugs. "I've only got two real drunk modes: Homicidal or desperately horny. You pick." He has the good grace to flinch, then grimace at me. "Sorry, diddit again, din't I? Okay. In the room." He motions toward the door.

I just barely remember I have his key. I unlock the door as my libido does my thinking for me, and even goes so far as to control my mouth for a moment. "Well, if I had to pick . . ." Oh, thank God, my common sense just kicked my libido's ass and took control of the body again. Jesus, I'm not the one who's drunk here, though you wouldn't know it to listen to me . . "Go. In. Now."

"In," he nods, "definitely . . ." He pauses, which makes me doubly aware of the double entendre he just made." In . . . Bed. Uh . . ." He starts looking around, sort of panicking, then brings his gaze back to my face. "I have to sit down .. now." I realize he actually had to raise his voice to be heard over Wesley's snoring, and the thought nearly makes me collapse to the floor in a fit of hysterical giggles.

Only the thought of what might happen if we were both lying prone on the floor next to each other keeps me upright.

And if he lies down on the floor outside in the hallway where the big windows will be filled with morning sunshine at any moment . . . Groaning, I give him a shove and close the door. Great. Now we're in the pitch black darkness he can probably see just fine in. Too bad he couldn't see a damn thing in the brightly lit elevator.

"Okay Mr. Night Vision Predator -- where's the bed?" 

Listening closely, I hear the fall of his unsteady feet. His legs collide with something, and a second later, his big body collapses onto something that doesn't make a big thudding noise I'm really hoping is his bed.

"Ah . . . bed," he sighs with relief.

Thank Fuck.

I'm done now. I can leave. I'm allowed to leave. He's safe from harm, safe from our hormones, and the only thing he's going to have to deal with in the morning is a really, really bad hangover . . .

DAMN IT!

With a disgusted sigh directed at myself, I carefully move to the spot I heard him collapse at. My knees hit the bed and I start feeling around until I find his legs. I trace them down to his boots and undo the laces. God I love touching him . . . He's so big and hard and oh my GOD I HAVE TO STOP!

"You are so gonna owe me for this, buddy," I grumble as I successfully remove one boot. "I don't care if you do forget it. Just because you don't remember doesn't mean it didn't happen."

The noise that leaves his mouth is indescribable, but it's happy and content, and so long as it isn't *too* happy and content, I'm good with it. I remove the other boot and debate the rest of his clothes. He won't be at all comfortable when his coat gets tangled around his body in the middle of the night . . . and he *hates* wearing *anything* to bed . . .

"Yer always good to me," he mumbles sleepily. "Take good care of me . . . it's nice."

Okay, so considering all I want to do is crawl into bed next to him, I'm voting a big 'NO' on stripping him for bed. He'll deal with the tangle. And I've got to get out of here before I start crying.

"I wish I could always take care of you," I whisper to him quietly. He really does look uncomfortable . . . maybe just his coat and his shirt . . . which would give me a great view of his chest . . . I've always loved his chest, big and broad, just perfect to stretch out across and nap for a century or two . . . okay, again with the big 'NO' vote. 

Feeling a little light headed, I sit on the very edge of the bed near his shoulders. I bring one of my hands up and lightly smooth it over his forehead. "Just sleep, Angel," I murmur over Wesley's snoring.

His hand appears out of nowhere and grips mine firmly. He brings it to his lips, but doesn't open his eyes as he starts to mumble against my knuckles. He's not very coherent, but I hear bits of it. Things like "coming home after a long day" and "wife" and "hot bath." Things that I would die to have with him for even a day. Things that I know I'd never be satisfied with for just a day. Things that make me greedy for him, and all that we could be for each other.

Then, he turns on his side, and curls up around me, his nose pressed against the outside of my thigh uncovered by the pajama shorts that have ridden up. "Love you, Buffy," he mumbles, and I shut my eyes tightly, combing my fingers lightly through his hair.

There are tears screaming to be shed, but I cannot, will not ((notnotnotnonono)) let myself cry until I'm away from him. I also will not let myself curl up next to him ((rest for a lifetime in his arms)) no matter how much every part of my body is demanding I do just that. Instead, I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead ((I wish I could take all your pain away)). "Love you, too," I whisper before extracting myself from him as gently as possible.

Opening the door as quietly as possible, I turn back toward the bed. I try not to, but I can't help myself. He's safe, in the dark, and I can barely make out his form, still curled around the phantom imprint my body left beside him. I wish I never had to leave him.

I do, though. I always do. Fighting back tears for the millionth time tonight, I move into the hallway, closing the door behind me gently. The walk back to my room is shorter than I would have liked, leaving me no time to collect my thoughts. I don't have my key, so I knock on the door, hoping only Dawn will answer it.

Will nothing that I wish for ever come true?

"Back at last," Spike notes as he holds the door open. "Bit was getting worried, wanted to go out and look for you." 

Bit. He calls her Bit now. He started doing that months ago, dropped the 'Little' right off, why the hell didn't I notice that, why didn't it make me realize what was going on? 

My head hurts, my heart aches, and my skin is still itching. I can't deal with Spike unless I kill him, and Dawn might do something stupid like run away if I hurt the man she loves. Fine.

Grabbing Spike by the collar of his shirt, I slam him none-too-gently against the door frame.

"Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Big Bad, because if I have to repeat myself you'll be taking the message off the end of a stake.

"You are Dawn's bodyguard. You will die for her. You will not snog, shag, pet, or in any other way touch her unless it is to save her life. If you break this very unbreakable rule, I will kill you.

"You will not hurt Dawn. You will not cause anyone else to hurt Dawn. You will wipe your mind of every single one of the demented, sicko fantasies you have about MY BABY SISTER, or I will kill you.

"If I ever find out that you have stolen underwear, lipstick, pictures, or any other personal belonging of Dawn's, I will kill you."

"I'm beginning to sense a pattern, here," Spike croaks from the hold I've got on his throat. 

"Good. That shows you're smart enough to stay alive." I release him and stalk into the room. I take in Dawn, sitting on her bed, looking relieved and worried at the same time. On the floor, Spike's sleeping arrangements are set up -- a pillow and a mug of blood. 

"Buffy!" Dawn leaps up and throws herself into my arms. I hold her back and inhale her scent. There's Spike on her and it makes me angry and sad at the same time.

There's a part of me that wishes there were any possible way this thing between Dawn and Spike could end anything but badly.

But I know better. Besides, look what happens to all my wishes.


	7. Angel - The Demons in My Head

The squadrons of little demons with pickaxes that have taken up residence in my skull wake me with the noise of their concerted effort to hack away large portions of my brain.

Christ. With pain like this, I think I should probably be dead...er. Or at the very least, back in Hell, where I might *expect* a hoard of little demons with pickaxes to take up residence in my head.

But I peel one eyelid open and see the empty bed across from me, and I remember.

The House of Pleasure.

Sigh.

The other eyelid snaps open of its own accord, shuddering like a broken window shade, that tiny spastic movement inciting the miniature demon army to perform a jaunty jig as they work, and I start to remember why I feel like I'm at Final Death's door.

Sort of. At least, I'm fairly certain that I'm in New Orleans, and that I spent a good majority of last night getting reacquainted with my old friend Jim Beam. ((Actually, if you want to be technical, Jim Beam hadn't yet been invented when I was a full-time drunkard, but. the sentiment is the same.))

I drag my wounded body upright, and I wonder...

Did I *really* used to do this *every* night? *And* romp with strumpets *and* rob my father blind besides?

"Ah, Angel. Good morning," Wesley screams at the top of his lungs.

Only... Wesley never screams at the top of his lungs. Not even that time we burned out a nest of giant leeches under the South Central YMCA, and one slithered straight up his leg. So I'm thinking it has to be those murderous little demons again.

I bury my face in my hands. "Stake me. I beg you."

He chuckles what is probably meant to be softly, and... those savage brain monsters break out into a rollicking drinking tune to accompany their jig, as they switch from pickaxes to thousands of little bundles of dynamite.

Can I just *die* already? This seems cruel and unusual punishment even for me.

My friend - dear God, I love this man - hands me a tall glass of ice water, a fistful of aspirin, and two pints of blood from my cooler.

"You'll feel better after this," he chides without chiding in that understated British way he has.

"Thank you," I whisper, appropriately chagrined.

Once I've ingested my blood and painkiller breakfast, and my head begins the long journey back to "clear", the gaping holes in my memory start to bother me. I remember walking... trying to call Buffy, getting upset at myself for trying to call Buffy, then wandering back toward Bourbon Street, and walking into the first random bar that didn't have hoards of brightly dressed, inebriated revelers pouring out of the front door. Then ordering a drink...and another... and another... and another... and... quite a few more after that, I think, but then-- nothing. Just vague recollections of someone named "Jim" and a conversation about Tantric Sex.

You know...there's a good reason why I don't drink anymore. Beyond the fact that it often takes several thousand dollars for me to even catch a buzz.

"I don't suppose you have any idea what happened to me last night," I inquire of my well-rested looking friend, who is occupied with carefully making his bed. Doesn't he know that hotels...

Oh, forget it.

He cocks an eyebrow at me and gives a little shake of his head. "I showered and went straight to sleep. You were here when I woke. What happened in between, I'm afraid, is one of the great mysteries of the ages. Although, it seemsfairly clear *what* you were doing while whatever it was was happening to you."

I frown... which still twinges more than a little, pretty much from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes.

How much did I *drink*?

My body screams at me to lie back down, curl up under the covers, return to the incredible ((Buffy)) dream I'd been having, and not come out again until the Microscopic Skull-Mining Demons' Union decides it's time for them to quit for the day.

But...no. I guess there's no help for it. I'm the idiot who got myself into this mess to begin with (that statement being the pathetic story of my life), and therefore, I am the idiot who will have to go monster-hunting feeling twice as dead as I usually do.

I force my legs over the edge of the bed, and wait for a wave of dizziness to pass. That's when it hits me.

My nasty, rumpled, slept-in clothes... smell like Buffy.

I sit there, stunned, for a moment. I mean, okay, yes, I do tend to see her, sense her, feel her and smell her everywhere, awake or asleep, drunk or sober, but I have the nose of a hunter, and my clothes literally have her *scent* on them.

Which, of course, is impossible. Even if I had gotten it into my booze-addled brain to fly home to California and somehow get close to her, I never would have made it back here that quickly... or at least... not without fitting neatly in a Ziploc bag. No, no... Buffy is safely ensconced in Sunnydale, 4000 miles from here. Or... as safely as a person can possibly be on a Hellmouth when they're the Chosen One, I suppose. and I haven't gone anywhere near her in several weeks... much to my body, mind and soul's great despair.

But all of a sudden, it's like my dreams have started seeping out of my pores right along with the liquor. She's filled me to overflowing, and now I'm not only dreaming her... I'm *sweating* her. Breathing her in and out, as though I spent all of last night taking her into my entire being.

I think that there is something seriously wrong with me that a pint of blood and a fistful of painkillers won't even come anywhere *near* fixing.

"I'm going to take a shower," I inform Wesley, who doesn't acknowledge me at all, as he's already buried nose first in a book. He's trying to figure out exactly *what* it is that we've been sent here to kill, which he has been scrambling desperately to do for a week now, with no success, thanks to Cordelia's setting of a new record for vague visions: "Mardi Gras. People Screaming. Something devouring them, and they're all writhing around on the floor. And... ooh! Wrought iron railings!"

Not much to go on.

I suddenly remember suggesting to someone that we kill Wesley. Did I really say that? And... was that the same person I was discussing Tantric Sex with? And why does my brain contain impressions of sky blue cotton, and somebody talking about sleeping with Spike?

I guess I'm lucky I didn't wake up in a straight jacket or in jail. Or soulless...

I drag my carcass into the cavernous bathroom, and lament the fact that I don't have time for a good, long soak ((with Buffy)). I strip out of my ((Buffyscented)) filthy clothes... hold my sweater up to my face and breathe ((her in)), slow and deep, until my senses are reeling from it ((vanillasunshinetears)). My whole body tenses in response, I'm instantly hard as a rock, and every part of me now aches from both hangover... and unquenchable desire. God... I'm going mad with this all-consuming obsession with her. How is it that I ever deluded myself into thinking we could just be *friends*? That I could be satisfied chatting about demon killing and mortgage interest rates over lattes in all-night coffee shops, when I have to clutch my coffee cup almost hard enough to shatter it just to keep from reaching across the table to touch her beautiful face? How can I pretend to hug and cheek-kiss her hello when she comes to visit, when the first thing I notice is how her smiling lips look so kissably delectable and how short her skirt is, and how she's gained a little weight, but that it sits just perfectly on her little hips, providing just the right purchase for hands while thrusting deeply and burying myself to the hilt inside her living heat, and she changed her soap again, so she smells like almonds and Buffyskin...

It's then that my drunk dreams start coming back to me. Which dreams are, apparently, slightly different from my sober dreams. I remember clearly standing at the edge of Jackson Square... one minute, arguing with Buffy about Darla and Perfect Happiness, and the next...

I fling the sweater away as though it had bitten me, and turn on the water as hot as it will go.

I kissed her. In my dream. I told her how badly I wanted her. How badly I'd always wanted her. How much I loved her, how my body aches with missing her touch, and I kissed her until the bottom dropped out of the universe, and reality was spinning so hard all around me, I almost got sick from it.

Oh, God... I really am going insane.

I finally step under the searing hot spray, and I can't help but sigh as it scours clean my itching, burning, too-tight, filthy, hungover, famished, Buffy- aching skin.

(("Was I not... good?"))

But I'm never really clean of it, am I? Underneath the thin veneer of civility I've struggled so hard to maintain from the first moment I heard her say my name (("Angel... that's a pretty name.")) - a defensive shell that's only become progressively thinner every time we've touched -- there burns a lust like nothing I've ever experienced in all of my depressingly long life. Deeper, hotter, more demanding, even, than hunger for blood. Buffyneed. It's sexual and spiritual, lascivious and reverent all at once, and there's nothing that eases that craving but touching her... holding her... feeling her beneath me, all around me...

(("I can only remember one time when it really even seemed to BOTHER you all that much that we couldn't... be together like that..."))

The one thing I can never do, except in my dreams.

I scrub every inch of my skin nearly raw... this burn and itch like a rash, now, as if my drunken dementia somehow has made missing her a worse agony than ever. I'm almost frantic to get her scent off of me. It's presence there hurts, and I find myself overwhelmed with irrational urges: to try and call her again... to fly back to Sunnydale just to give her a hug and see if that's any balm at all. ((To rip her clothes off and throw her down in the foyer and sink into her flesh and gohomehomehome...))

(("You said *I* deserved someone who could make love to ME. Not ONCE did you tell me if that was something YOU needed..."))

I close my eyes as I drown in waves of her, the memories hotter than the water... her green eyes heavy lidded with desire... her golden skin flushed crimson with want... the sound of her breathless panting of my name... her hair splayed like sunshine silk over the pillows on my bed as I drink her down from lips to toes, my hands like wild things on her flesh, and I bury myself deep... so deep in her welcoming body ((the Gates of Heaven)) that I might never find my way out again... and I don't care. She wraps herself around me... a blanket of bliss and comfort and perfect happiness. The way she keens in the grip of her climax, pulling me right along with her...

And after that vision, another... my face buried between her legs, devouring her wet, vital essence while her thighs clamp so hard around my head, it makes the work of the hangover demons feel like a gentle summer breeze, but I don't care. I want her to crush me. I'd rather be dust on her soft skin than whole and empty without her.

The pictures keep coming... memories and dreams and hallucinations muddled into one long line of torturous bliss. I can remember the taste of her blood, thick and hot with magick, rushing over my tongue and down my throat... the sensation of my teeth in her neck... the whimperingmewling sounds she made as she came and I glutted myself on her until I was bursting from the flavor of her ecstacy.

I can feel her hands on me everywhere... Tangled in my hair and wrapped around my aching cock. I can feel her stroke me, firm and slow, and her searing lips closing around my head, taking me so deep that I can feel the back of her throat, and that storm that builds in my soul and my groin at once, burgeoning waves of consuming, firestorm bliss as my entire being explodes with her sweet sorcery and I rocket over the edge of nothing, disintegrating in space...

I cry out as I come... and I never even realized I'd started touching myself.

Okay...*That* has *definitely* never happened before. I stand there, frozen in terror as the scalding water washes the incontrovertible evidence of my growing insanity away. I have to get out of here. I have to be alone. I have to do something before I lose my soul to this itchingburning madness and become a monster again.

Just when I think things can't get any worse... they do. The bathroom door flies open, and Wesley charges inside.

"Angel? Are you all right?"

Sure, Wes, I'm great. I just fell into a trance and beat off without realizing it. Oh, and you might want to get the elephant gun and chains ready, because I've been feeling more than a little Angelus-y over the past couple of days...

"I'm fine." And I couldn't possibly offer any more explanation than that. My mind is far too occupied with the terror that I might have caught some heretofore unknown blood borne disease that's slowly driving me mad to think of a good story, and oh... look at that... the army of brain-mining demons have moved back into my skull after their union-sanctioned coffee break and have resumed their earlier project of slowly killing me with impressive relish.

I wish I could drown.

"Oh. I... thought I heard you shout."

There is, fortunately, some small part of my consciousness that is still fully Drunken Liam, and can tap dance its way out of anything from fatherly disapproval to the murderous rage of a cuckolded husband. It springs instantly to my defense, even as the rest of me is muttering 'Ohgodohgod I'velostmymindI'vefinallylostmymind."

"I banged my knee on the side of the tub."

There. It's not a great story, but it's serviceable. And far more acceptable than the alternative...

"Oh. Are you... all right?" he asks with clear trepidation, and a pinch of disbelief besides... which is fair, really, because I'm thinking the noise I just made probably wasn't an 'injured' noise, so much as an 'Oh, yes, my body is exploding with pleasure' noise.

"Fine," I grunt, and turn off the water.

His shadow in the shower curtain doesn't move.

"I'm *fine*, Wesley. Sorry to startle you," tap-dancing-me lies smoothly.

"Yes, well, that's... good. Er... I just spoke to Cordelia. We've agreed to meet for a late lunch in the dining room before we head out to find this... whatever it is we need to find. According to the literature, the Passion's Palate is actually a four-star French restaurant, much to my surprise. I thought I might... Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah," he babbles on.

"Wesley?" I interrupt with a growl -- insane, itchy, grouchy me now fully in control once more.

"Yes?"

"I'd like to get out of the shower now."

Silence for a moment, as though he didn't understand what I just said.

"Oh! Right. Yes. Sorry. So... I'll meet you downstairs when you're ready, then?"

I sigh and lean back against the tiled wall. Oh... that's nice. Smooth and cool against my overheated skin. Maybe I'll just stay here.

"Sure," I sigh.

And then the shadow is gone, the door clicks shut behind him, and I wish with all of my not-so-impressive-right-now might that there was such a thing as vampire psychiatrists. Not doctors who *are* vampires - I'm sure there are plenty of those - but counselors who specialize in the unique difficulties faced by an immortal demon with an unstably moored soul, in love with the incredibly beautiful, vivacious, sexy, tantalizing Chosen One...

Now I remember why I got drunk in the first place.

***

Passion's Palate. I roll the restaurant's name around in my head in a half- insane, half-bitter sort of hyena cackle as I finish getting dressed, and crawl down the twelve flights of stairs to where I hope there is a great deal of black chicory coffee waiting.

Although, I'm thinking that Lithium might be a better choice for me at this juncture. Or maybe elephant tranquilizers...

Passion's Palate. Who the Hell names their fine dining establishment something like that? Sounds more like a brothel than a place that's supposed to serve world-class cuisine. Of course... I'll admit to having more than a few fine meals in whorehouses over the centuries. Granted, sometimes the whores *were* the four-star meals, but...

Jesus, what's *wrong* with me?

As I exit the fire stairs where my family and I made our grand entrance the night before, I find that same nasty little (("I'd eat 'im, if I didn't have a soul...")) overpaid bellhop that greeted us upon our arrival. I try not to make eye contact as I pass him, because the way I'm feeling, I don't think "polite conversation" is anywhere near my current realm of possibility, and he's more likely than not to end up short a few limbs or pints of blood if he...

"Good morning, monsieur," he says. And damn it, they're three very simple, common words, and yet, in that very special way the French have, he manages to make them sound like the basest personal insult possible.

"Mmngrgph," I reply.

"I trust you had a... pleasant rest?"

I freeze, feeling my old buddy Murderous Rage bubbling up in my empty gut. I'm fairly certain I growl at him... maybe even flash a little fang... but he looks unimpressed.

Of course. This is *New Orleans*... the vampire capital of the United States. If he's lived here long enough, I'm sure he's done more than a little business with more than a few creatures of the night, and I'm probably not even close to the most frightening of those.

"It was *fine*," I snarl, adding a faux-civilized, and completely insincere, "Thank you."

He smiles... and I have never seen a nastier expression on any of the thousands of extremely nasty creatures I've encountered in my life. My hand twitches, and I can practically hear the demon in my head screaming, "RIP THE LITTLE BASTARD'S HEAD OFF!"

"Will you be joining your... *friend*... for breakfast, then?"

I stare at him dumbly. For a moment, something in his tone, matched with the bits and pieces of drunken memory still swimming around in my eroding gray matter, make me wonder if he's talking about...

Okay... get yourself together, Angel. Buffy is in *Sunnydale*. She is *not* in New Orleans. You are simply off your very ancient, extremely squeaky, rocker. He's talking about *Wesley*. He probably assumes you're *gay*, and he wouldn't be the first one, either.

"As a matter of fact, yes." I then spin on my heel and continue down the hall, barely hearing his parting words.

"Have a nice day, *monsieur*."

Go fuck yourself, you little prick.

I finally locate the dining room, and step up to the penguin-suited host standing by a teakwood podium in the doorway.

He looks me up and down slowly, which makes me do the same, because I suddenly can't remember if I actually bothered to put on clean clothes.

I did, thankfully... I think that, again, this guy's shooting me a bored "Oh, a vampire, how very droll," once-over.

"May I help you?"

Only if you have a stake handy. "I'm meeting my friends for lunch."

He arches an eyebrow at me. "Your *friends'* names?"

Look, buddy, I'm really not in the mood to play games, here. You might want to let me get to the coffee and a nice, dark table before you end up a statistic on the already rather large 'unsolved murders' blotter of the Greater New Orleans Police Department. "Cordelia Chase, Charles Gunn, and Wesley Windham-Pryce."

Little Prick Jr. slowly lowers his gaze to the bound guest book on the podium. "Yes. Right this way, please."

I follow him through the sea of elegantly appointed formal dining tables, and I have that sensation again. For a moment, I almost turn around and run, because I can *smell* her. I can *feel* her in the air, exactly the way I did this morning, and last night. I don't belong in a dining room with all of these civilized people... I'm a slathering, rabid animal with a hard-on that could cut glass, and all because I'm imagining that the love/lust of my life is somewhere in the immediate...

"Angel! Look who's here!"

Oh... shit.

I allow Wesley's cheerful call to draw my gaze to the table... the long, long table... surrounded by no less than ten people... Anya and Xander... Willow and Tara... Dawn and... oh, God, Spike... Cordelia and Gunn... Wesley himself, and finally...

Our eyes meet, and the universe evaporates all around me. I'm drowning in fields of summer moss and struck by lightning and having a stroke, except that I can't *have* a stroke, because I'm already dead, and oh my dear God it's Buffy.

Everyone's talking at once... greeting me, explaining their presence and oh, isn't it a weird coincidence and Spike is making some smartass comment about how he's looked better after a two week bender and Dawn is hugging me and Cordelia and Gunn are shooting one another knowing looks and Xander's calling me Dead Boy, and the waiter is asking if he should bring another chair...

But all I see is her. All I hear is her rapid, nervous heartbeat fluttering, and her breath quick and shallow. All I smell is her soft, warm skin, and all I feel is the glad-embarrassed-scared-loving vibrations that wash off of her and over me...

She's here. She really *is* here. I'm not going... Okay, so I am probably still going insane, but I'm not hallucinating her, because I sure as *Hell* wouldn't have Spike or Xander in my hallucinations, unless I really *am* in Hell, and did they use this one on me before? I can't remember...

"Close your mouth, Angel, you're attracting flies," Cordelia drawls.

I clamp my mouth shut, and shoot her a "You're next after the waiter and the concierge" look.

And in a moment, the vivid recurring dream I've been having almost constantly for the couple of years washes over me...

A long, lazy morning in Cordelia's bed, where Buffy and I have been staying while the Hyperion is being renovated after yet another bomb disaster, making love to one another over and over again, until we're both exhausted and sated and crying with the joy of never having to be apart again, and we talk about love and forever and perfect happiness and she feels so good above me, beneath me, all around me, and dear God, how do I ever live without her in my arms every moment of every day?

Suddenly, there's a small, warm hand on my arm, snapping me back to reality. I force my heavy, throbbing head to turn and look down at her, and... has she always smelled so *good*?

"Hey," she says softly... gently... and with a knowing, intimate look that sends shivers of warmth through my already overheated body. "Have you been justly punished for your abuse of alcohol last night?"

Oh... good God. She really *was* there last night. She saw me at my... well, almost my very worst, and please, dear Lord, don't let half of the fuzzy memories I have be true, because if they are, then I practically jumped on her in the middle of Jackson Square.

"I think Jim Beam and I are fairly close to even," I manage to reply, and give her some semblance of a smile in return. Because the truth is, no matter what stupidity I might have indulged in last night, or how insane I may be going, or how hot, itchy, hungover and uncomfortable I might be...

It's still so good to see her again I could fall to my knees before her and weep with the relief of it.

And in that instant, gazing down into her beautiful, shining green eyes... into that pure, sunshine smile, as I'm awash in her vital warmth ((needhungerlove)))... something that had been aching and dying inside of me goes perfectly still and peaceful. For that moment, before we move or speak again, there is nothing in the universe but the two of us... she, the missing half of me without which I am never fully whole... and for that precious moment... I'm complete.

"Come on, Dead Boy, you're holdin' up the chow!" Harris bellows, shattering the crystal bubble of peace around Buffy and I.

I give him a glare that tells him in no uncertain terms that someday, somehow, I am going to make him *pay*. For *everything*.

We'll see who's a dead boy then, won't we, you little...

Buffy shoots Xander a dark look that seems a tad excessive for one little comment, which, actually, isn't all that obnoxious, for him. I have a feeling that there's some backstory there that I'm missing. But frankly, right now, I can't bring myself to care, because my head is spinning with her proximity, with her sweet scent, with the soothing, hypnotizing rhythm of her thundering heartbeat, and I wonder... what did we say to one another last night? Was she glad that I kissed her - that is, assuming that I really did act like a fool and kiss her at all?

"Angel! Sit here!" Dawn calls out, shoving Buffy's chair over, and her own practically into Spike's lap, as she convolutes her body in a way that a yogi would envy ((there's Tantric sex thoughts again... not appropriate when looking at Buffy's very young sister, but Buffy's right there, too, and oh... God... it was her I was talking about Tantra with, wasn't it?)) to pull a chair into the spot for me.

Spike grins wryly at her. "Subtle, love."

Buffy's glare shoots from Xander to Spike as she tugs me toward the table, her hostility like a spark of sulfur in the air. "This changes *nothing*," she hisses in warning... whether at her sister or my GrandChilde, I'm not certain. There's something wrong about Spike and Dawn's scents, somehow. Like they've been wrestling or something, because I could swear they smell like one another...

No... that's impossible. She's a little girl, and even Spike isn't stupid enough to make moves on the Slayer's sister.

Okay, so maybe he is.

But this morning, I don't have the energy to even contemplate something as heinous as Dawn and Spike... doing anything, frankly. Besides, truth be told, everybody at the table smells like one another, as if they'd been taking part in an all-night orgy, and...

Right. I forgot. I'm going insane. That had almost slipped my mind for a moment.

Cordelia glances up from her grapefruit as Buffy and I sit down, and gives us a slow once over. "So, how is you look like you took on a whole herd of Tantus demons last night?" Her gaze flicks from Buffy to me and back again. "Never mind. I don't want to know. As long as you still have your soul, the rest is gravy."

Gunn elbows her fiercely, and follows it up with a disapproving look.

She glares at him. "What?! Look at them! They look like a couple of drunks who hooked up at a frat party and boffed in the tool shed all night long! You can't tell me they don't!"

I sigh. Could things get any worse?

Why did I ask that? Now I'm damned for certain.

"Gotta say, Queen C's got a point," Xander chimes in cheerily, bending over the table as if to get a little closer to me... which, he should know, is *really* not a good idea. "You *are* still fully souled, aren't you, Dead Boy?"

I'm fairly certain I growl at him. "You're still alive, aren't you?" I snarl under my breath.

Spike leans over Dawn, obviously using her as a shield. "Yeah, you're looking right homicidal, Peaches. Sure you aren't planning to murder us all horribly?"

Dawn elbows him in the ribs... a *lot* harder than Gunn nudged Cordy.

"Lay off, unless you're *trying* to get Buffy to kill you!" she snaps at him.

Buffy, who has remained quietly tense and completely mortified through this whole quasi-inquisition, lays a frigidly sweet smile on Spike. "No, Dawn... *please* let him keep it up. I'm begging you." She starts inching forward, her every Slayer strong muscle tense ((don't GO there!)), as if she's planning on springing straight over both myself and her sister and taking Spike out once and for all. Not that I don't understand and fully agree with the sentiment, but now is not exactly the best time for a public staking. I put a hand on her arm ((so strong, so warm...)) and gently nudge her back into her seat. ((Into my arms... my bed... under my lips, and...)) There's *definitely* something going on here that Buffy has neglected to tell me about. But the demons are back in my skull, half the table's occupants are staring at Buffy and I like they're wondering if we found some cosmic condom or something, while the other half are embroiled in a scene that looks very much like HP Lovecraft's version of Romeo and Juliet.

No, no. I refuse to entertain anything even CLOSE to the idea of Dawn... little... innocent Dawn... and Spike... vile, loathsome, disgusting, murdering FIEND Spike...

Willow, always the diplomat, cuts the tension... or at least... batters softly against it. "Uh, guys... do you think we could maybe shelve the insults and threats of dire bodily harm until after we killed the monsters, which, remember, is why we're all here? Big? Ugly? Devouring Mardi Gras revelers?"

Of course, the only ones who are really listening are Wesley and Tara. But for entirely different reasons, I'm sure.

Or at least.I hope...

"Indeed. I think that since we're all here, perhaps we might lend one another a hand." He turns to look at Buffy. "You never told me exactly why you *are* here."

And as my beloved gives a monosyllabic explanation of what brought she and her family 4000 miles to exactly the same hotel ((House of Pleasure)) where we are staying, mostly consisting of, "Demons. Willy said there were demons who kill partiers every year, so... Slayer. Army. Dead Demons," I am thinking about how good her rage smells. Her *anger* smells sweeter than roses to me. Sweeter than chocolate cake baking. Sweeter than sandalwood and sage. It makes my already tired and tense muscles twitch and hum, and I'm struck with the sudden urge to *hunt*... or to throw her up on the table in front of God and everyone and...

Maybe I really *am* back in Hell. Or still in Hell. Because really, the past six years have mostly been torture -- this particular moment more than any other one before. She's so close, I can see that tiny chickenpox scar behind her ear. So close that I could lean, just a little, and kiss the delicate shell that hides it. So close... and yet so far.

The same torture that drove me out of Sunnydale... away from her... to begin with.

I almost knock her over when I jump from my chair. "I need coffee!" I cry like the mad eejit I've become, and make a beeline for the buffet, where an urn stands like a holy idol, and I have to say, I've never been quite so happy to see a small appliance before in my life.

The shrill, skull-splitting voices of my family follow me.

"God, what's his damage? He's been a total bitch ever since we got here!" Cordy complains.

"Yeah, 'cause he's usually Mary Sunshine," Spike snarks.

"Who put grouchy juice in his coffee?" Harris wonders aloud.

"Hasn't had his coffee yet," Gunn reminds him.

"That explains it. I know Willow's nutty before she's had her coff..." Tara comments, then quickly backpedals, "I mean nutty in a sexy, beautiful, attractive way,"

"Well, I'm certainly glad all of us are able to behave like adults and put our personal issues aside so we might FOCUS," Wesley complains.

I start chanting the Ohm in my head as I pour an obscenely large cup of coffee, and wish I knew a little magick that would let whiskey appear inside.

Although... that's sort of what got me into this mess to begin with, isn't it?

If this really is Hell, then I wish they'd get back to the holy water transfusions and the endless parade of my victims wailing at me, because those are so much easier to deal with.

I hear Buffy excuse herself and feel her coming closer. Closer... her heat... closer... her scent... closer.. the memory of her lips on mine. ((NonoBuffynotnownotBuffynotnow...))

But when she arrives, I'm compelled to turn and look at her. God... has she always been this beautiful? Every time I see her again, I'm struck nearly senseless by all the subtle things about her that are so spectacular... the particular way she chews her lip... that sparkle in her eyes...

I automatically pour a second cup for her, and add more sugar than actual coffee, plus add fresh cream, even though she doesn't usually take it. she's not used to chicory.

"Hey," I greet her as I hand her the cup.

"Hey. You know... that was a really good impression of a scared rabbit you did back there," she jokes, and gives me a smile that lights the whole room to a soft, warm, sunshine glow.

I have no choice but to smile in return. The tension of the previous few moments is instantly forgotten. My headache is gone. There is nothing in the universe but the two of us once more. That crystal bubble of ((Home)) absolute comfort that only exists when we're close like this.

"Thanks. It's an art form," I inform her, and nod to the cup as she's about to bring it to her lips. "I know you don't usually take cream, but... it's chicory coffee. Also known as 'Very Strong Bean Flavored Mud'. Much like Cordelia's, but on purpose."

Her full lips smile around the rim of the cup, and she takes a sip. A look that I could swear was grateful, maybe even a little sad, flashes across her features, and she murmurs, so softly that I don't think I'm meant to hear it, "You remember how I take my coffee."

Of course I remember. That and so much more... how hot she likes her shower, how she likes her eggs scrambled fluffy with mozzarella cheese, how she likes two pillows instead of one when she sleeps, and how her arms and legs automatically reached out and wrapped around me when...

She finishes the first taste, and her eyes slowly rise to meet mine once more. "Good. Thanks."

There's a pause in the action for a moment. It's could almost be awkward, but somehow manages not to be. The chittering voices of our combined families fade into the background, a low hum of meaningless white noise, and the quiet inside our personal universe is filled with unspoken questions and the scent of love and desire, and I can hear her pulse fluttering... her breath just a little too short... too fast. She's feeling as off-balance and out-of-sorts as I am, and that realization makes me feel just the tiniest bit better.

We have almost always been perfectly in synch. It doesn't seem fair, somehow, that we're not allowed to....

"So. Demon hunting," she says, defending herself from this silence that begs to be filled with whispered promises of eternal devotion and sighs of delight... tears of longing and murmured reassurances that yes, it's all right to feel this way. We're supposed to love with every iota of our beings... with every movement and breath and heartbeat.

It's not wrong. It's not wrong. It can't be wrong to be so filled with a lover's ((former lover's)) presence.

I swallow stiffly, and try to pull myself together. Unfortunately... it's not working any better now than it did when the little hangover monsters were endeavoring to chip my whole existence away.

"Demon hunting," I agree stupidly. "What are you guys looking for, anyway?" I wonder if maybe she told me last night, but... if she did, the moment has been washed away by an ocean of bourbon and the sweet peppermintwarm of her kiss.

Before she can reply, our resident father figure calls us. "Angel? Buffy? Would you care to join us, please?"

A little pout bends her soft mouth, and God... I'd love to kiss that proffered lower lip. "Do we have to?" she whines softly, as if her mother was calling her in for dinner, and she was a child, embroiled in a game that she doesn't want to leave.

God... I love her. I shouldn't. I never should have, but I do. More today than eight years ago, and no doubt less than I will eight years from now.

Maybe breaking the bubble is for the best, because right this moment, all I want is to take her in my arms and kiss the sugar from her lips, and...

"We probably should," I sigh. More regretful words I haven't spoken in a very long time. Since the last time I said, 'Bye, Buffy. Thanks for coming. Talk to you soon.' "Demons," I remind her... and myself, desperately searching for that switch in my head that when clicked, instantly puts me in Business Mode. It's nowhere to be found.

Neither of us makes any move away from the other.

"Angel? Buffy. If you would, *please*," Wesley repeats, his voice taking on a slightly exasperated tone.

"Jeeze, *Dad*, don't let them get their coffee or anything," Cordy offers in our defense.

"Yeah, because what they're doing right now has *everything* to do with Coffee," Gunn chuckles at her.

"I don't like the way they're looking at each other," Harris complains, "Hey, Buff! Dead Boy! Return to Planet Earth!"

Buffy and I continue staring at each other. I'm drowning in her eyes... they're more blue than green, today, with flecks of sable that shine almost gold. An ocean of love and desire and comfort and everything I've ever dreamed of, but am eternally denied. But right now, the Shouldn'ts seem so far away, and all that remains is the tantalizing pull of Her. Me. Here. Now.

"I'm sort of partial to where I am," I whisper, and my rational mind objects loudly, 'Shut UP! Go SIT DOWN! GET AWAY FROM HER BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!'

"Definitely. There aren't any sex noises here," she whispers in reply, and her eyes immediately grow to saucer size in horror over what she just said. "I mean, 'cause... you know, there were nothing *but* sex noises all around me last night because Willow and Tara and Xander and Anya were... although, not all together, because wow, that would be weird and... is it hot in here? I'm hot. Are you hot?"

Oh... yeah. I'm suddenly remembering all of her intimate sounds... little whimpers and coos... sweet gasping chanting of my name... fierce cries and bellowing wails that make the walls shake, and...

I nod dumbly at her. "Hot. It's... definitely very... hot." I shake my head to clear the red haze that's consuming it again, and try to correct myself. "I mean... Louisiana is hot this time of year. It has something to do with the Gulf Stream and swamp gasses... or... something." God, I sound like Wesley. I have to get out of here. "So. Table?"

"Table," Buffy yelps eagerly, and practically sprints back to the table, this time taking my seat beside her sister, mug of coffee clutched like a lifeline in her tiny... infinitely strong and gentle... hand.

As I follow her, every step a painstaking effort, I wonder if there's any way I could possibly move to another table without the others noticing. Which, naturally is a very stupid idea, as every single soul is watching us as though we were a hoard of slathering, bloodthirsty demons preparing to attack them. I'll just have to suck it up and think about baseball... or grandmothers... or dirty dishes or something. Yes, that's it. Dirty, smelly dishes caked with grease and dried up tomato sauce, soaking in hot, soapy water. The bubbles like silk on her skin as she submerges, her long hair flowing out all around her....

Grandmothers it is, then. I finally manage to sit down in Buffy's now-abandoned chair.

"Good," Wesley praises, then launches immediately into Meeting Dictator Mode, "It would appear that both of our groups are in the rather precarious position of not knowing precisely why we're here. Now, it would be my most educated presumption that having been drawn to this particular location at the same time is an unlikely coincidence, which leads me to conclude that it is more probable than not that we are looking for the same creature. We don't, however, have any notion what that creature might be, only that it will attack in the vicinity of Bourbon Street, on Mardi Gras, which is tomorrow night."

I tune him out. I don't mean to, but... it happens sometimes when he's repeating himself and overspeaking without actually contributing anything of any interest. Besides, I'm much more comfortable with my elbow on the table, my head propped in my hand, where I can look like I'm paying attention to Wesley, but what I'm really doing is watching Buffy trying not to watch me out of the corner of her eye while she pushes her eggs absently around her plate. Her pulse is still erratic... nervous... excited... her skin perfumed by the same part-joy, part- fear, part-want that I can feel rushing through my own veins, and if I look closely enough, I can't watch her life's rhythm pound softly beneath her throat...

"...and the sewer system should be patrolled, as well. I took the liberty of calling up the blueprints on the computer this morning. The networks are rather extensive, so I think it best if we divide their exploration between two teams, each containing a vampire, as you are, naturally, experts in tracking. Spike and myself will patrol the eastern end, nearest the river, and Buffy and Angel will search the West End, where we are now. Does everyone..."

"Wait," Dawn interrupts. "Um... is that really such a hot idea? Because, I mean... Spike's like, my bodyguard. Evil stuff is always trying to get at the Slayer's sister..."

"Dawn..." Buffy warns.

"What?" the girl cries shrilly, "You're the one who said Spike is "never to let me out of his sight unless I'm in the house," remember?"

Beside me, I can practically hear Buffy grinding her teeth. "Do *not* make me get into this right now."

Dawn leans closer, narrowing her eyes at her older sister. "Just because you've been Super Bitch in the crappiest of crappy moods ever since we got here gives you ZERO right to threaten Spike's life every time I don't do or say exactly what you want me to."

Hold on. Wait. I'm missing something, here. This tiff is about a lot more than Spike going on patrol without Dawn.

"Dawn..." Willow interrupts, in that soothing way she has that I've always wondered about. Is she using magick to ease everybody's tension?

"Will, it's not fair!" the youngest Summers yelps, gesturing wildly, "She's not being fair! Can't you tell her she's not being fair?"

Everyone who isn't Buffy, Spike, Willow or Dawn looks on in bewilderment.

"Love to, Dawnster, but... we'd have to be let in on why Buff's got issues in the first place, and this is all news to me. Anyone else?" Xander says, voicing our collective confusion.

Naturally, we don't have a clue.

"Oh, please," Harris' ex-demon girlfriend chimes in. "It's so obvious. Buffy is jealous because Dawn is having sex and orgasms, and she isn't."

Buffy promptly spits her entire mouthful of coffee all over the table. Varied looks of shock and amusement touch the other faces, including, I'm sure, my own. Dawn blushes crimson and sinks down in her chair. Wesley grumbles something about no one respecting his authority.

Xander clamps his hands over his ears, and wails, "AAAHHH! You used the words 'Dawn' and 'orgasms' in the same sentence! I'm scarred for life!"

I look at Anya. Then at Buffy. Then at Dawn. Then finally, at Spike, who is sitting in his chair looking... smug. Unfortunately, I'm hearing all of this information, but my brain can't seem to process it. Orgasms. Sex. Dawn. She's... wait. No, that can't be right. Buffy's not seeing anybody? Hold on. I knew she that, I just chose not to think about it. God, I'm confused.

Dawn, embarrassed. Spike, self-satisfied. Sex. Orgasms. Dawn. Spike. Buffy. Spike. Dawn. Orgasms. Sex noises. "Wait. WHAT?" I hear myself cry out.

"NO WAY!" Gunn laughs.

"Oh, my GOD!" Willow laments, burying her face in her hands.

"Can we PLEASE stop talking about SEX for ONE MOMENT?" Wesley shouts, "Dawn is quite over the age of consent in the State of California, and..." His eyes go wide as he puts the last piece of the puzzle together. "You're having sex with SPIKE?"

If there was any remaining doubt, it has now, at last, been washed away. I am absolutely, positively, in the deepest pits of Hell.

"Didn't we do this before?" Tara asks softly.

"No," Harris corrects her, "That was *Buffy* who was sleeping with Spike and clearly insane. Now the title has apparently been passed on to Summers: The Next Generation."

Cordy snorts bitterly. "Figures."

"Why in GOD'S NAME would you have sex with SPIKE?" Wesley hollers at Dawn.

My head snaps around to look at Buffy. "YOU SLEPT WITH *SPIKE*??? When was this, exactly?"

"It wasn't me... it was a robot," she objects softly, "A gross, disgusting sexbot that *looked* like me." She turns a withering glare on the vampire in question, who is still quietly watching the scene unfold. He's obviously enjoying himself a great deal.

He shrugs. "The Buffybot was a work of art, I'll have you know. State of the art. Cost me a pretty penny, too."

"It was a work of *pornography*!" Buffy snarls.

"Do they take custom orders?" Gunn chuckles, earning him an elbow in the ribs from Cordelia. "OW!"

"You may not have *slept* with him," Cordy interjects, turning back to the burgeoning confusion around the table, "But you *did* almost *marry* him!"

My dead heart jumps straight into my throat, and what little is left of my rational brain disintegrates into quivering, whimpering mush.

Except, apparently, my speech center. "YOU ALMOST *MARRIED* SPIKE????" I screech. Why doesn't anyone ever *tell* me these things?

"That was just the spell!" Buffy and Willow cry out in tandem.

I turn my glare on my descendent, and I am suddenly filled with perfect calm once more. "That's it. I've let you live long enough," I declare, and leap up from my chair.

"Yeah, Willow wanted Spike and Buffy to get married," Cordy explains evenly.

"If you ever loved me, you will kill him and kill him now," Buffy grumbles, slouching in her chair.

I get a fistful of his collar and haul the bleached dead man out of his chair, his feet dangling and kicking in the air, before he can even voice an objection. But before I take him out, I turn once more to Willow.

"Why in God's name would you want Buffy to marry SPIKE?" I bark at her.

The redheaded witch suddenly looks very, very small. "I didn't *want* them to get married! How many times do I have to explain myself for this?"

Doesn't matter. I turn back to Spike. "Time to die, boy."

He swipes at my arms ineffectually, and I quickly scan the immediate vicinity for something wood that I can splinter. But before I can arm myself, Dawn is up and out of her chair, putting her little body squarely between myself and my soon-to-be-late descendant.

"Please don't kill him!" she cries, "I love him!"

I blink at her. "You what? No. You don't. You can't."

Buffy gets up out of her seat and joins the fray. "I keep telling her that, but does she listen to me? Nooooo. Oh, God, I knew it. I'm turning into my mother. I'm being punished for everything I put her through."

Gunn sits, happily munching his toast and watching the melee like a particularly absorbing TV show. Cordelia pays no attention at all, instead focusing all of her consciousness on consuming her grapefruit. Anya looks fascinated and thoroughly entertained. The rest of the group seems frozen in gaping shock.

And I am trembling with a fury unlike anything I've ever experienced before. Spike needs to be dust. Now. He's taken advantage of Buffy, he's taken advantage of Dawn, and that's quite enough to rate him Final Death.

Dawn shoves at my chest. "No, Angel, you can't! Don't! PLEASE!" she shrieks.

Wesley gets up, grumbling something about "a bunch of undisciplined, sex-crazed ruffians," and leaves in a huff.

I glance down at my love's little... BABY... sister. "Dawn, please. Get out of the way. You don't know what you're saying."

Spike seems like he wants to object, so I tighten my grip around his throat, making sure all that he can manage are some fairly painful-sounding gurgling noises.

"Honey, be reasonable," Buffy agrees, putting a gentle hand on the girl's arm. "He's going to die someday. I think it would be kinder if we let Angel take care of it now. Who knows how long he might suffer if I end up doing it?"

I give her an affirming nod. "Exactly." I pull Spike closer to me, so that we are face to face. "I'll make it quick and agonizing, I promise."

"LET HIM GO!" Dawn bellows, and stomps all of her 105 pounds down hard on my foot. I drop Spike, more out of surprise than anything, and... Ow! I think she broke a couple of toes! I grab my mangled appendage, and begin hopping up and down on the other foot. "Dawn, he's a MONSTER!" I shout at her, "What is going through your HEAD? You're just a CHILD!"

Her mouth drops open... her blue eyes narrow in rage. Buffy winces. "Ooh. Bad move. Bad, bad move. Never call her a child..."

The youngest Summers stalks closer to me and grabs my collar, yanking me down so she and I are face to face. "I. Am. NOT. A CHILD. I am SO SICK of hearing this from my sister, I sure as HELL don't need it from YOU!" She lets me go and takes a step back, gesturing frantically as she rants, "God, how hypocritical can you two GET?"

"Excellent point," Anya agrees approvingly.

Gunn reaches across the table for more toast, but never let's his eyes move from the action. Cordy has produced her omnipresent makeup back, and is currently doing her nails.

Xander gives his fiancée a look. "Ahn, you're really not helping."

"I'm not trying to. Just enjoying the show," she corrects him cheerfully.

"Excuse me?" I spit at Dawn. "What are you talking about?"

"You heard me!" she seethes, glaring back and forth between Buffy and I. "The two of you... you've been carrying on this stupid star-crossed, doomed love affair thing for eight YEARS..."

"Hey!" Buffy objects, "We haven't been doomed for a LONG time!"

I look at Buffy, and wonder... has everybody been noticing what I've been trying so hard to ignore or deny? Or is it just a child's intuition? We've been fooling ourselves, and Dawn knows it. Does everyone else know it, too?

Said child rolls her eyes. "Oh, PLEASE! Like you're fooling *anybody* with this 'You've Got a Friend In Me' BULLSHIT!"

"Don't say Bullshit!" Buffy chides her, "And... it's NOT. We ARE friends. GOOD friends! That's ALL!"

"Right," I agree, "And besides, Buffy and I are *different*. I have a SOUL." I turn back to Spike. "Whereas this little whelp... is pure *evil*."

"Hey!" he finally objects, now that his voicebox is freed from my grip, "I may not have a soul, but I'm not ALL bad!"

"Yes you ARE!" Buffy screeches, "That's the operative definition of EVIL!"

I just growl at him. The best I can do right now is keep my features human so we don't terrify all of the other... already terrified patrons.

Spike puffs up proudly, and puts his arm around his protector. "Yeah, well, maybe I am evil. But I love her!" He glances down at Dawn, and she gazes adoringly up at him, and... Jesus, I could almost believe that he does have a soul, if the emotion I can see in his blue eyes is any indication. "I love her to distraction," he whispers, as though his words are for her alone. "With everything I have inside of me, and I won't lose her."

I stare blankly at him for a moment. He sounds so sincere... so devoted. His look and his tone are stained with soft affection, which she clearly returns. Maybe they're right. Maybe... this isn't so different from Buffy and I.

Hold on, what am I THINKING? I remember what 'devotion' means to Spike - whips and chains and bringing dead things home as heartfelt gifts... burning down villages and impaling heads on pikes as tokens of esteem. My rage returns in a blink, and I dive for him once again, knocking Dawn out of the way as we tumble to the floor.

A split second later, I feel Buffy right beside me as we try to pin him down, with Dawn screaming and pulling at our clothes, begging us not to kill him.

"Ehem."

Very, very slowly, the four of us look up.

The Concierge is standing there, glaring down at us as though we were roaches he had found marching around in his salad. "I hope you are all enjoying your *breakfast*," he snipes, "However..."

"Long story. Don't ask," Cordy comments.

Buffy offers in guileless explanation, "The eggs were runny."

He gives Buffy an extra-derisive look. "I am certain, mademoiselle, that the eggs were *not* 'runny'."

"But there were seeds in my orange juice," Harris cuts in, gesturing at us, "Do you know what kind of chaos seeds in the orange juice can cause?"

The annoyed concierge now gifts Xander with his very special withering glower. I manage to struggle to my feet, and offer Buffy a hand up.

Gunn laughs. "Seriously, Jeeves, I think you've got some toxic levels of caffeine in this coffee. Check out the family sized bad vibes goin' around up in here."

The concierge is now looking at all of us like we're dog crap on the bottom of his Italian loafers. "Be that as it may. If you cannot eat your breakfast like *civilized* people, in relative *peace*, then may I suggest." His gaze nails me. "Room Service?"

He's right, of course... there's a time and a place for this... and The Passion's Palate at the height of brunch isn't it.

Buffy looks at me, and... how does she do that? How does she make the entire universe vanish just with a glance?

"Yeah... swell idea, Jeeves. Silver dollar pancakes..." her voice drops to a smoky purr, "... in bed... sounds REALLY good right about now."

Our eyes meet for an electric moment, until she tears hers away and looks at the floor. A shiver runs through my over-adrenalinated body at her implication, and it barely registers in my mind that the topic of our rather heated discussion is absconding with her sister and bolting toward the fire exit. I can't move away from my open, hungry stare, and suddenly, she's staring back again.

"Pancakes," I whisper, taking a step closer to her.

"With lots of hot... sticky syrup," she adds under her breath.

I smile. And I can feel that it's not a nice, loving, sweet smile, but the grin of a starving predator. "With fresh strawberries."

"Mmmm. And whipped cream," she moans.

"Um... guys?" Cordelia interrupts. "Danger Lusty Zone, here."

Buffy frowns a little as she inches closer to me. Closer, baby. Just a few more inches, and I can...

"Where's Dawn?" she asks absently.

"Who?" I murmur.

"Angel!" Cordy calls again.

"Aw man... and me without my axe," Gunn laments.

"Dawn. Kid sister to Buffy," Xander explains helpfully, "Who you look like you're about ready to do something to that really *shouldn't* be done in public."

"Or in their case," Cordy reminds him, "Shouldn't be done AT ALL!"

"Dawn?" I ask, blinking furiously as my synapses begin to fire. Syrup all over Buffy's firm stomach... her pert breasts... dribbling between her tight thighs... No, wait. Dawn. Sister. Baby sister. Molested by a demon. An Evil, soulless demon. Kidnapped by... "Where the Hell is SPIKE!?" I finally shout, coming to my senses and look around frantically.

"Um... Buffy, Angel, I hate to rain on your dual psychotic lusty murdering parade thing, but... um... doing... what you want to do to Spike should probably be secondary to finding the big bad thing that we're here to find?" Willow begins to rethink what she's saying, as she realizes the concierge, and most of the restaurant's patrons, are still watching our drama intently. "I mean... I'm sure he'll keep Dawn... um... physically safe while we... uh.. .and then after we... take care of things, we can sit them down and have a nice, rational talk."

Buffy and I both look at her, and she gives us that innocent/embarrassed Willowsmile.

My brain is doing summersaults. I'm trying desperately to suppress both consuming lust and homicidal, demonic rage. "Right. Bad things," I parrot stupidly.

The concierge rolls his eyes. "May I suggest a nice tour on the Natchez? A *long* tour. Perhaps all day? From what I understand, there are no big, bad things on the riverboats."

I tear my eyes from Buffy and gawk at him. "Yes. Riverboat." I'm thinking right now, a good demon hunt and some sewer stench are exactly what I need. "Great idea. What do you think, Buffy?" I ask her, but don't look down again.

"I would enjoy a tour on the riverboats," Anya interrupts. "Xander, do we really have to help with the... thing, this time? I'm sure everyone could do without us, especially with Angel and his friends, and..." she leans closer to Harris, "I've never... *been*... on a riverboat before."

Gunn rises from his seat, and holds out Cordy's chair while she does the same. "Yeah, Diel, let's go. The south end probably isn't this exciting, but..."

I wonder how cold the Mississippi is this time of year. Maybe, after the sun sets, I can go for a nice, frigid swim. It's not like the toxic waste will do me any real harm.

Buffy finally replies, "Sounds good. Boat," as if she's only just woken up from a very deep sleep. "Where the bad things... aren't. Angel, you and I should... check out that place where they aren't that Wesley suggested earlier."

The concierge sighs, his 'please go away, barbarians' vibrations as loud and clear as if he was shouting them through a megaphone.

I nod at Buffy. "Definitely." I quickly guzzle down the rest of my coffee and turn to the concierge, who, I notice for the first time, has a name tag... Francois. Figures. A snotty French name for a snotty French guy. GOD, I hate this little man. What is it about him that's so disconcerting? "Sorry to be such a nuisance."

Francois smirks at me. "Well, at least you were not bellowing 'Danny Boy' at the top of your lungs this time."

I narrow my eyes at his condescending tone, and decide that the best course of action is to grab Buffy and get out of here before we do anything else that might get us all arrested.

I give her a sheepish smile. "Shall we?"

She nods, blushing, and looks away. "Sightseeing it is," she agrees.

Why do I have the feeling it's going to be a very long day?


	8. Buffy: Yep, It's Official -- We've Got Bad Sewer Karma

"So . . . New Orleans. Even the sewers have a flavor all their own."

I watch him while trying to look like I'm not really watching him. I'd probably be more successful if I hadn't been noticing him doing the same thing all morning. 

"Mm," he says, in apparent agreement. "They're built more like the Roman aqueduct system . . . side paths that divert the waste to the outer reaches, keeping them out of the central system." He nearly looks sheepish. "Or, you know, something less disturbing and completely uninteresting."

Smiling nervously, I shrug. "Guess you've had a lot of time to study Sewers of the World. Fun hobby."

He gives me a look. I'm not sure what it means. I hope I didn't hurt him with whatever gibberish just escaped from my mouth. I honestly don't know what I said. All my considerable energy is being spent trying to keep myself from rubbing against him while we walk; from grabbing him and begging him to make love to me. 

Oh yeah. I'm *perfectly* sane.

"I've had to spend a lot of time in them. It helps to know what to expect."

Oh, you mean like the time you dumped me in a sewer two days before Prom?! 

Woah. Where the hell did THAT come from? I haven't even THOUGHT about that in . . . years. I've purposely kept myself from thinking about my history with Angel, the painful aspects of it, at least. It makes the friendship easier. Now all of a sudden it's all ripping clothes and naughty lusty wrong Buffy and being pissy over shit that happened FIVE YEARS ago?

I bet it seems really weird to him that I haven't said anything in response.

"Right." Great. So I either get to think about sex, or Angel dumping me in a sewer. Swell. I break the barely there gaze we'd established, embarrassed for bringing the whole sewer-debate up. "Lots of sewer time clocked in," I mumble dumbly.

Ladies and Gentlemen, step right up and witness the MOST awkward conversation on the face of the earth. In one corner, we have Buffy, the horny gibbering idiot! Watch as she sticks BOTH feet in her mouth simultaneously! But don't count out her opponent just yet. Angel, he of few words except when he's babbling like a drunken buffoon is quite the contender. 

He's doing that thing where he's watching me again. I've always been able to feel his gaze on me, from the very first. Before I really got to know him, I couldn't name what was watching me in the dark; watching *over* me in the dark. It was only after he drank from me, when I started being able to feel him, deep inside in a place I can't name, that I realized just how long he'd been keeping me safe.

I always know when he's watching me. 

"Listen, Buffy . . . about last night . . ."

And the awkward just keeps on coming.

"You know what, don't even apologize," I interrupt, because if there's one thing I know, it's his 'I'm really sorry I touched you too much, Buffy' voice. "It's okay. You were sloshed, and I was . . . well, I don't know what I was, but YOU were sloshed and this really isn't about me, is it?" My voice began to rise steadily with every word. I hate it when I do that. It makes me feel weak and out of control and I haven't felt weak and out of control around him in a long time. Not since that dream-inspired late-night phone call so many years ago. 

It's like I'm back in high school again, he's just come back from hell, and we're trying not to touch each other too much. God, I hate that place we were stuck in for way too long. I never want to go back there. I *like* having Angel as my best friend. I like being able to hug him or hold him or feel him brush the hair back from my face without it being a giant warning signal of oncoming doom. I like being able to spend five whole minutes in the same room with him without trying to remember what his neck tastes like.

Okay, so I never make it LONGER than five minutes, but still.

Wait, is he talking again?

"--was . . . sloshed. And . . . I realize that I was . . . probably -- I assume \-- way out of line. So . . . if I said anything . . . stupid, or . . . inappropriate, I'm sorry." He runs his hand through his hair and DEAR GOD that's sexy. Why haven't I ever noticed how sexy that is? Or maybe it's just sexy because I'm imagining my hand running through his hair while he kisses me . . . "It's been a long time since I've had that much to drink."

I resist the urge to say 'huh?' in a lust-dazed voice and try really, really hard to figure out what he just said. Wait . . . he's not apologizing for anything in particular. He's making generalization-like apologies--

"Are you saying you don't . . . remember, exactly, what happened last night?" The sigh of relief I breathe on the inside could blow trees over.

He's avoiding my gaze. That's SO GOOD! He's ashamed of stuff he doesn't remember! HE DOESN'T REMEMBER! Some insane part of me that always celebrates too prematurely starts doing a jig, a perverted Dance of Joy I try to stamp down. Just because he doesn't remember how gigantic of an idiot I was last night NOW doesn't mean he won't remember it EVENTUALLY. I'm still doomed. I've just received a temporary reprieve.

"To tell the truth," he begins, looking pained and embarrassed and a thousand other things I completely identify with, "No. I mean . . . I have . . . fuzzy memories" DAMN IT! "But uh . . . I'm . . .not really sure what was real and what I--" He abruptly trails off and I'm dying to know what he was about to say. Angel does that a lot; trails off when he's talking to me. I always wonder more about the things that he doesn't say, than I do about the things that he does. 

"I just hope that I didn't . . . offend you," he says at last. "Or act like a moron, as I tend to do when I drink." He looks panicked, now. "I didn't did? Do anything . . . " He gestures and the panic turns to terror, "That I'm going to regret if you tell me about it, did I? I mean, I didn't . . ." Stoic Boy reappears abruptly. "You can tell me if I did." Only to be quickly elbowed out of the way by Panic Boy. "No, on second thought, scratch that. I don't want to know."

This is so creepy. I mean, sure, I've felt like I was going insane before. My thoughts are almost always chaotic and scattered. The only real difference I've been noticing lately is my TOTAL all-consuming preoccupation with sex, more specifically, sex with Angel. So it's not me that's creeping me out.

Angel is acting MANIC. Once upon a time, 'manic' for Angel implied nervously tapping his foot. He's loosened up a lot since I first met him, but this . . . this is way beyond 'loosened up'. The vibes I'm getting off him are freaky, and I wonder if I'm giving off the same vibes. If I am, we're in trouble that goes way beyond some sewer slime and an evil demon to kill. 

Which means I have an interesting predicament on my hands. Self-preservation, or relieving his clearly troubled mind. 

As ever, my predicament is laughably easy to solve -- the only time I *haven't* put him before something was when the fate of the world was on the line. 

And I've regretted that choice every day since.

"Nothing happened that you should regret," I tell him firmly, looking him in the eye again. He can always tell when I'm lying, and he knows I avoid looking at him when I attempt it. I smile a little. "And I certainly wasn't offended." My smile turns mischievous. "Some of your behavior did, however, have distinct moron-like qualities." I debate with myself for a moment, and the little devil on my shoulder wins. "Although, Beautiful Buffy certainly enjoyed her Bourbon."

He actually flinches, and looks horrified. "Oh, God . . . I didn't . . .try anything, did I? I mean . . ." He sighs, and it's the most woeful sound I've ever heard. "There was a reason why I had a reputation as a lecherous drunkard when I was alive." God, I just want to gather him up in my arms and rock him like a baby. A two hundred and twenty-five pound, two hundred and fifty-year-old baby. 

I need such help.

"Well . . . so much for my refined, noble, *sane* best friend image," he says, sounding depressed. He forces a smile, though, and it makes me feel special, that he smiles for me when he clearly doesn't want to. Then, his face softens further, and he comes a little closer, wearing an expression I haven't seen on his face in a long, long time. Half-predator, half-protector, and totally in love with me. 

My knees *actually* go weak.

"I think I remember . . . kissing you," he murmurs, and he's the only man ((I can walk like a man, but I'm not one)) I've ever known who can literally purr. "Did I?"

Now, I actually *gulp*. And damn, my skin feels too tight around my bones which are screaming for me to move closer, to touch, to . . .

"Um . . . yeah, there was . . ." Is that my voice? That unnaturally high, squeaky thing? "Kissage. And it was . . . *wrong*, it was so . . ." It's like we've both got magnets inside our skin, and his magnet just picked up on my magnet and we can't help gravitating toward each other. It's not our fault. It's the magnets. Right. The magnets. "We shouldn't do that. The kissing. Remember, we said we wouldn't do that, but . . ." Stop it! Stop looking at his mouth! Stop moving closer to him! Stop thinking about what you're thinking about! Say anything else!

"Did you mean it when you said you loved me?"

ANYTHING BUT THAT, YOU IDIOT!

When, exactly, did I lose control of everything I think, feel, and do? That can't bode well for my future as a *living* Slayer.

Great, now he's reeling. Not like I should expect anything different from him. I'm Buffy, the Amazing Freak Girl who can't stick to one subject unless it's jumping her ex-boyfriend-current-best-friend which is Not. Allowed. 

Then again, there's something else in his eyes besides reeling from freaky me. Maybe I'm imaging it; maybe it's just a hallucination brought on by my skin being so tight I'm tempted to beg him to suck me dry just to loosen it a little. Plus there's a certain draw to the sucking in and of itself. 

Is that a sick thought? 'Cause I can't tell anymore. I've had so many raw, carnal, bestial dreams about Angel and I that there's no line between 'healthy' and 'disturbed' in my mind anymore. It's all thrown into a drawer marked 'Really Fun Things I Can't Do' that I keep tightly locked and ... 

. . . And he's still staring down into my eyes like he's lost in them. And I've been staring up into his eyes like I'm lost in them. Well, except for the 'like' part. 

"I . . ." Oh, good, I'm not the only one who can't string words together. That's comforting. He blinks, and abruptly backs away from me. "I shouldn't have done that . . . or said that. It was inappropriate." The words say one thing, the look on his face says another. "Are you upset that I did? Did that . . . and . . . said that, I mean?"

Did he just avoid my question? I think he did. I'm really good at sniffing out Angel Avoidance, and that was AA if ever I've seen it. The question becomes, not IS he avoiding, but WHY is he avoiding? If it's because he's trying to spare us both the inevitable pain that always comes when we admit we're in love with each other . . . well, aww, that's sweet, and I just love him more.

But what if he's avoiding because he doesn't want to tell me he doesn't love me anymore, and he's sorry he fell back on old habits when he was drunk?

I can't really be this neurotic, can I?

Is he actually expecting me to speak? 

"I . . . no, I mean . . . I mean yes. Yes, I am upset." Right. Upset. Go with the upset. It may be your last line of defense. "Because you can't just go around telling people that you love them when you don't." No! NO! Danger! That's NOT the upset place to go! It leads to either reassuring, or crushing blow, and BOTH are equally bad. "It *means* something," I continue stupidly. "And I've got a lot to deal with lately, a *lot* and you just DUMPED that on me when I tried to call you, you weren't even there, and I get why now, but . . ." FOCUS ON ANYTHING ELSE "and GOD, Dawn's sleeping with Spike!"

Okay . . . still not brilliant, but . . . better. I guess. And he looks confused again. Well done, Buffy.

"What . . . wait. Buffy . . . I did mean it. I didn't mean to *say* it, because I *know* you don't need any more pressure in your life, and . . . I think that we should kill him as soon as possible." How sad is it that I totally followed that? He's looking desperate around the edges again, sort of like I imagine his Crazy Homeless Guy face to be. "You don't . . . think they're actually . . . having *sex*, do you?"

At least someone is. My entire body freezes. Did I say that out loud? He's still looking the same degree of desperate and horrified, so I'm going to go with no. 

A moan of frustration leaves my mouth as I contemplate how to answer his question. Might as well be truthful. Maybe he'll help me kill Spike when no one's around to stop us.

"Actually, I know they are. I walked in on them last night. They weren't *actually* having sex, but they were way too close for my personal comfort. And then they ADMITTED it. While we were on Spring Break, Spike deflowered my little sister." I pause, and make a rational decision. "I'm going to kill him." 

Hey, when did I move close enough to him to see that little mark on his forehead he must have gotten sometime when he was human? Probably in a drunken bar fight or something . . ."But that's totally under control," I assure him. "Spike dead, Dawn sad for awhile, Me happy." I'm trying really hard not to ask, but I have to know, I just have to. "You're sorry you love me, or you're just sorry you told me?

"I'd be happy to kill Spike for you," he offers gallantly. "In fact, I have a very pleasant visual of ripping his head off with my bare hands." He glowers darkly, and it sends a completely inappropriate rush of lust through my body. He's just so dark and hunky . . . "I can't believe he'd take advantage of a young girl like that," he continues, "and . . ." he trails off and he seems to realize I'm close enough to see that little mark on his forehead. And that he's close enough to just reach out, and . . . is he smelling me? God, it used to drive me crazy when he smelled me. 

He blinks furiously. "I . . ." He swallows deeply and I watch in rapt fascination as his Adam's apple works. I could follow it with my tongue while I make him gulp and gulp and gulp . . . "I'm not sorry I feel the way I do, no." Now he's even closer, and he's leaning down the way he always did, so I could kiss him without having to stretch and he's staring at my mouth. Of course, I'm staring at his mouth, so . . . "I can't ever be sorry for the way I feel about you," he whispers in that raspy voice that's made me soak nearly every pair of panties I own. "It's the most precious thing I have in my life."

Oh, God, Angel's Big Hand on my cheek, Angel's Big Hand on my cheek . . . now it's lust and tears battling for dominance. Lust is probably stronger, and I'm almost grateful, because I have no desire to break down in sobbing tears *again* in a sewer.

"In my drunken rambling, did I happen to mention how . . . beautiful you are?"

Guh. Gah. Gugulg. Those aren't words. I should think of real words he can understand. His chest is so close, too . . . my hand moves of its own volition and presses against his chest, over his still heart. It doesn't beat, but it knows how to love so exquisitely. 

"It may have been mentioned very briefly in passing." Now I'm smelling him, too, and he's filling me up until he's all I know. My skin is itching, but now it's itching with him beneath the surface and it's like tiny little firecrackers dancing over every inch of flesh on my body. 

"I love you, too, you know," I say quietly, staring at my hand over his heart. "And it's so hard not to tell you. It's so hard to just be your friend and not be able to touch you the way I . . ." I've spent three years trying not to tell him all these secret things that aren't really secret between us at all, and suddenly, it's the easiest, most natural thing in the world to pour them out. "But I know I can't go back to how it was before, either, when we didn't see each other, or talk to each other . . ."

That would kill me. Going back to that . . . I need him in my life. I just . . . I need him in my BED, too. I need him between my legs, splitting me open and making me scream. I need his teeth in my neck and his hands all over me while he gorges himself. I need to be able to do all the things I have in my head that I haven't had a chance to do. He'd really enjoy them, I think, and of course, that's the problem, he'd enjoy them WAY too much. 

Did he say he was going to kill Spike for me? 'Cause I love entertaining the idea, but to actually do it . . .

"You can't kill Spike." No, he doesn't get to waltz right into the middle of the situation and take THAT joy from me. "You can hold him down while I kill him."

I narrow my eyes as I scent something different about him. And believe me when I say I *always* notice how he smells. Leaning in to him, I press my face against the small patch of skin visible above his collar and inhale. "Is that new cologne? God, how can you smell so good . . .?"

He sighs in that way he always does when I touch him a certain way; shivers against me, and I've watched him do it so many times, I don't have to move my face from it's very comfortable position to know his eyes have drifted shut. 

"Buffy," he whispermoans. Uh oh. Every time he's ever said my name like that . . . His fingers tangle in my hair, get lost until he can cradle the back of my head. I aid him without fear of consequence, at least for the moment, and let him tilt my head up in the promise of one of his drugging kisses.

I am so not disappointed.

His mouth finds me and it's gentle for the first two seconds as we both inhale and realize how close we are again. Then, he attacks my lips fiercely, feasting on them like he's hungry for me. God, I haven't felt him hungry for me in so long, and I've missed it so much . . . Blunt teeth nibble at my lips, aid him in sucking them one by one into his mouth. 

Oh, and his tongue, his big, wet, rough tongue sweeping into my mouth, over my teeth, tickling the roof of my mouth, urging mine to follow it back into his mouth. No problem there. It's been so long since I've kissed him without the taste of Bourbon overpowering HIS taste that I'd almost forgotten it. Except for my dreams. Oh, God, he really does taste the same in my dreams . . .

No, no, no, he's pulling away, noooo . . 

"I want you so much," he mumbles against my mouth. I breathe a sigh of relief and sort of pant against his lips. No more talking. All we do is talk. Kissing now. "I do love you. I've never stopped wanting you and--" I pull his lower lip between my teeth and he groans and kisses me again briefly, "--I know the way I feel is wrong. I don't want to lose--" His hands are all over me the way I've missed them, sliding beneath my shirt to grope at the bare skin of my back. I return the caress, trying to imagine his coat away with the sheer force of my will. It doesn't work, but he's still kissing me around every word he speaks, so I forbear.

"God, you feel so good . . . our friendship. This is why I had to leave you, because . . ." It's the wrong angle, and I'm about to correct it when he does it for me. He lifts me up by my arms so he can attach his mouth to the side of my neck without stooping. I wrap my legs around his waist so I can keep my hands free to run through his hair and over his shoulders and beneath his shirt. "When I'm with you I can't think of anything else but touching you . . . making love to you . . . being inside you . . . I do love you, Buffy . . .I do." 

I can only half hear his words because of the sinful things his mouth is doing to my neck while he mumbles them. It's been so long, and he feels so good, and he's sober and he wants me and oh God . . . 

"I know . . . God, Angel, I know . . ." Oooo, his jaw, it used to taste salty and his beard stubble always made my tongue tingle when I'd lick him there . . . I give it a try for old time's sake, and there's that tingle. I nibble instead, because he always used to enjoy that. He groans against the side of my neck, so I guess he still does. "It's wrong, it's so . . ." And he tastes good here, and here, and Ohhhh, his earlobe . . . "--very--" Back to his mouth, that succulent, pouting lower lip that *belongs* to me, *belongs* in my mouth where I can gnaw at it, "--wrong." My hands are clutching at his leather-encased shoulders and I start pushing it off because it has JUST GOT TO GO. "I love you so much . . . I've missed you so much, every night, Angel, please . . ."

He turns and pushes me up against the sewer wall. Ooo, good, more leverage. I successfully get his jacket off because his arms no longer have to hold me up. He grinds his crotch against mine, and we both groan as I feel how hard he is, how big he is, I remember everything about that one night, and the thousands of dreams since . . .

"I've missed you, too," he growls. "God, I dream about this . . . every. Fucking. Night . . ." I cry out softly as he slips a hand up under my shirt and cups one of my breasts through my bra; teases its nipple with the pad of his thumb, using the flimsy lace of my bra torturously. "Sometimes I can't think about anything else. It's making me *crazy*." 

Oh, he definitely sounds more animal than human now, and I shouldn't love it this much, I shouldn't *crave* it this much; shouldn't crave *him* this much. As if to prove how crazy I'm making him, he shoves my shirt all the way up and starts nibbling on the fleshy area of my breasts the bra I'm wearing does nothing to cover. He's making these . . . hot, hungry noises as he gobbles me up and I keen when he starts nibbling at my nipples through the bra. 

"I can't . . . not touch you," he mumbles around a nipple. "I *have* to, Buffy . . . God . . ." I'm only mildly surprised when he rips the bra from my body and fastens his mouth around my now-bare nipple with gusto. His mouth darts back and forth between my breasts, molesting each nipple frantically, like he can't decide which is his favorite while his hand wanders down between our bodies until he finds the fly on my sewer-truckin'-jeans. 

The hand still supporting me against the wall slides down to my rear and he cups it firmly, cups *me* firmly against him while his other hand continues trying to undo my jeans, to get inside them, God, I want him inside them, inside me . . . 

"I have to have you," he growls bestially. "*Now*."

Moaning and squealing at the same time, I anchor one hand in his hair, holding his head to my chest firmly. He must NOT stop what he's doing. "Yes . . . God, yes," I moan, using my free hand to rip the buttons off his shirt. Pressing my palm flat against his cold skin, I feel so perfectly peaceful for a few seconds, just touching him. Then the all-consuming lust . . . consumes.

"Angel," I whimper, "I can't live with dreams anymore . . . I can't . . ." Ooo, whatever he just did to my nipple he must do over and over and over again . . . it was sort of a teeth/tongue/suction move all at once and I'm near tears with how good he feels, with how much I want this. "I can't live without you anymore," I sob. "I can't go to bed without you next to me, and I don't think I can live another minute without feeling you inside of me again."

"I know, baby . . . I know," he whispers, and he's soothing me, just like he did that cold, rainy night so long ago. He wanted to wait, and I didn't, and I was the one who couldn't wait and he had to calm me and shush me and promise me it would be better if we just went slow, slow, slow, and I don't want slow I can't take slow because I need him need him need him . . .

Gah! His hand finally gets inside my pants and he's cupping me . . . touching me . . . panties still in the way . . . can't form coherent thoughts . . . 

"I've been so cold inside without you," he whispers. "Standing right next to you and remembering . . ." His kisses trail away from my breasts, and he backs away from the wall, arching my back for him, oh, yeah, moving me the way he wants me and he can do anything he wants to me as long as he never ever ever ever leaves me again. He's tracing patterns and circles along my stomach and I could die from this and not regret a second of it. 

He's down on his knees, now, and he's urging me down and oh God I've had wet dreams about him going down on me that, when I've woken up from them, have reduced me to fits of wrenching sobs because NONE OF IT WAS REAL. My panties are still in the way, though, and that's totally unacceptable and I ripped his shirt away at some point and Ooo his skin is so cool everything about him is soothing and exciting and GOD.

Cool, soothing lips easing the itchburn in my skin probe lower on my belly. His thumb rubs back and forth over the sopping wet crotch of my panties, teasing, always teasing me God don't tease ((Shh. Just kiss me.)) take me just take me take me . . .

"Your warmth," he whispers as he nears closer to my heat, "I need you, Buffy. I can't be without you anymore." One of his fingers slides beneath the legband of my panties, and we both let out twin guttural moans. "Oh, God, you're so . . ." I hear it in his voice a second before he does it. Whatever control had possessed him snaps and he yanks every stitch of clothing I had been wearing away from my body, baring me to his hungry gaze. I expect something from him, pretty words, like the first time, but he's nothing if not unpredictable to me. 

With absolutely no objections from me, he parts my legs with his forearms and plunges his face into my OH GOD I hope I don't crush his head.

Licking, sucking, nibbling . . . slurping, moaning, gorging . . . the sounds he makes are almost more arousing than the fucking ACTS OF GOD he can perform with his mouth. There are some pretty impressive sounds coming out of my mouth, too, assuming that high-pitched, whining, keening noise I keep hearing is from me. His mouth is everywhere at once, all over where I need him, all of him, the most, and I can't even keep track of it . . . my body feels like one big nerve and I'm about to come and come and come and come and . . .

My nails dig into his scalp, and I'm clawing at him, trying to pull him all the way inside of me even though he's doing a pretty impressive job of diving on in, all by himself and GOD he's making louder sounds like he can't get enough of me. It's so good, so good, so good with him because he enjoys it, he really does, he loves it loves me loves me loves me and he should NEVER stop gruntinggrowlingfeeding from me!

I can't form coherent thoughts, but I can scream loud enough to shatter glass when he sucknibbles at my clit in just . . . the right . . . way and I think I AM crushing his head and thank GOD he doesn't have to breathe and he has to get up here RIGHT NOW. 

A burst of Slayer strength allows me to haul him up my body by my hold on his hair. This time, I attack his mouth, licking every drop of my own moisture off his lips, his chin, his nose . . . There's a voice, a really annoying voice trying to niggle into the back of my brain. It's always been there, but pre- mind-blowing-orgasm I hadn't even heard it. Now it's threatening to intrude and I don't want to hear it it's not there because he has to be inside me I need him inside me HE needs to be inside me and I am not thinking about anything else I'm not I'm not I'm not.

Big, bare chest on top of me, rubbing against my nipples, irritating them so good. I rub back more and desperately claw at the buckle on his pants. Nearly ripping it away in frustration, I get my hand inside and wrap it around his cold, throbbing cock. It should turn me off that he's this cold and dead but it doesn't, not even a little bit, because he's alive in all the ways that count and he's so warm inside and he has to get insideinsideinsideinside. 

I stroke him firmly, and he barks out my name, thrusting against me mindlessly. There's more of those really hot gruntinggrowling noises and it should REALLY disturb me to have him like this, but all I can think is how amazing it feels to have reduced this calm, collected, stoic man to such an animal state of lust. I catch his gaze briefly and I can practically SEE the red haze coloring his vision and he's struggling with his pants to come inside me where he belongs, where he should always be . . . 

. . . where he's not allowed. He's not allowed to come home to me because . . . because there's a reason, it's such a good reason and I just can't quite remember what it is because he tastes so good and he feels so good and this is all I've been thinkingaboutdreamingabout for years, since the very first time he kissed me.

"God, yes. Yes. Buffy, yes," he hisses, and he vamps out, attacking my mouth. He nips at my bottom lip, purposely drawing blood and I nearly come again as he sucks it away. He's still struggling with his pants, and I should help him NO I have to stop him but I want him inside me but it's wrong it can't happen but it's all I want it's all he wants. "I want to be inside you," he whispers. Now."

Yes, now, now, nownownow just do it quick before I remember why before I remember Angelus and death and losing you and sending you to hell and the world ending and everyone we love dying at your psychotic demon's hands and oh God this is wrong it's so right but it's all wrong.

"No," I whimper. He doesn't seem to hear me, and I force my hand to release his cock. I bring both my hands to his chest, ineffectually pushing at him even as my mouth can't help but kiss him back; my tongue swirls around his fangs, begging him to take just a little bit more. I dig my nails into his back because I'm so lost in him, too lost to know better, and I feel his spill over the ends of my fingers. 

All I want is to claw at him until he pushes his way inside me, until he's completely embedded in me, cock and fangs drinking me down until there's nothing left and it won't matter what happens next. 

But I can't. We can't. We never could. 

"Angel, no, we have to . . . to stop, there's a reason we have to . . ."

Snarling, he grabs my hands and pushes them over my head. "No," he growls demonically. He nips lightly over his mark on my neck and I cry out at the sudden rush that it gives me, both in my head and between my legs. Gee, not conditioned to respond to my mate or anything. "Now," he snarls again, working his pants down to his knees. "I can't wait anymore. I can't . . . you're mine." ((all yours all yours except you can't have me but I am all yours still)) "I have to . . . have you . . ."

At last, he kicks his pants away and his face is pressed against my throat and his tongue is laving at the vein there and he's groaning and how am I supposed to make him stop?! His body is raging with the need to take me; it's deafening and he's forcing my legs open with his knee and he's trying to find his way insideinsideinside because he knows the way you never forget the way home and I just want to invite him in come in come in come in but I can't let him I can't. Focus, Buffy, focusfocusfocus. Guilt. Pain. Loss. Death. Think about what this moment leads to. 

((Hello, lover)) ((You just gonna let your old man burn?)) ((But tonight's special; I wanted to look my best for you.)) ((Close your eyes.))

Coherent, I need to say something coherent to make him stop, make him stop before it's too late and I can't make him stop.

"ANGELUS!" 

Okay, so not the best thing I could have said, but it'll hopefully get the point across please, please let him not be too far gone to respond and I'm going to cry if he stops and I'm going to cry if he doesn't and I need to push him away but all I want to do is hold him closer. 

His entire body freezes, and he pulls back, still vamped out and it really is love because he's still so beautiful to me. Fury and bloodlust mark his features, and he hisses at me.

"What did you just say?" 

I watch all the stages come over him. The fury leaves, and confusion takes it place. He's staring down at me in such genuine befuddlement and if I wasn't sure it would take us right back where we just were, so close to the edge, I'd pull him into my arms and rock him. He'd let me, right now. He hasn't reached the horror stage yet, and when he's this vulnerable, he can't fight me when I take him into my arms. 

And then it's too late. Bloodlust and plain-old-lust fade away and he takes in the death-grip he's got on my hands, the way he'd been slathering over the scar on my throat and he leaps away from me, and there it is, right on schedule, the horror. 

"Oh my GOD!" He's standing, staring at me, still vamped out, and definitely not entirely lucid. I hear him calling himself a monster like they were my own thoughts, and I wish I could pick myself up from the crumpled little heap I've turned into on the floor, but I can't. I glance up at him again, and he looks human, at least in theory. I still feel the animal in him clearly, just like I still feel it in me. His every movement filled with trepidation, he moves toward me and reaches down. "Oh, God . . . Buffy . . . I'm sorry. I didn't . . ." 

He's actually going to touch me it's okay it's going to be okay he'll touch me and I can hold him and we'll make it okay. 

He snatches his hand away, and I feel that tiny little bubble of hope in my heart die. It's not okay at all. It's never going to be okay, not after this. We've never come this close before, we've never lost control like this . . God, we almost . . . 

"I didn't mean . .." He closes his eyes, and I can feel the fight or flight running through his system. "God, I don't know what came over me." He looks right into my eyes, and I see the horror clearly written on his face as he looks at me. What the hell do I look like? I must be a pathetic, freakish site, cringing, naked on the floor. He picks up the t-shirt he tore off my body earlier and hands it to me. "I'm sorry, Buffy. I'm so sorry."

Why is he apologizing to me? At least I got a small, momentary release out of it. He's still . . . God. Not going there, there leads to bad places. We were both completely out of control. I notice the shirt I ripped from his body strewn in the corner, and I pick it up; hand it to him.

"I'm sorry, too," I croak out. There are big, fat tears blocking my vision. "It's just too much, you know?" I look up at his beautiful face and my heart cracks open in my chest. "Every time I see you, all I want to do is wrap myself around you. It's taking every ounce of self-restraint I have right now to keep myself from reaching for you."

And that's a really excellent point I'm making and I should really be getting dressed. As I dress, my hands itch to touch him, to soothe the tension screaming off his body. I opt to let both bra and panties -- ripped beyond salvage, anyway \-- rot in the sewer. It seems oddly appropriate, both for Angel and I, and the New Orleans sewer system. I'm sure it's not the first pair of undergarments lost around Mardi Gras.

When I look at him again, his armor is as firmly back in place as mine is, though both our clothes have certainly seen better days. I think I'm going to burn mine. He reaches a hand out to me again, and I take it gratefully, letting him help me up. I'm really done with sitting in sewer muck. His hands move to my face, and he lingers long enough to wipe the tears from my eyes with the pads of his thumbs. It just makes me cry more. Then he picks his leather jacket up and wraps it around my shoulders and I should just give it up and start bawling now. 

"I know," he says softly. "That's . . . why I never wanted to cross that line." I watch him force himself to step away. "It never gets any easier to stay away from you . . . like this." He gestures to what just took place between us and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. There's just something about this city. Buffy, I think maybe we should . . ."

Hugging his jacket around my body, I can't resist the temptation of sniffing at it. Angel and leather, forever entwined as sense memory in my mind; in my heart. "I know," I say quietly. I feel almost cowed by what nearly happened here. It's like my fantasy make-believe world has been burst wide open again, and we can't be just friends, Spike told us that a hundred years ago and I knew it then, I knew it as soon as I heard it, but I still had to hold out my stupid hope because my stupid heart can't stop needing him. 

"And you're right," I continue. "We should . . . we can't . . ." ohgodohgod I'm so afraid I can't lose him again I think I'm going to lose him again. "Does this mean . . . I mean, what are . . ." I sigh impatiently. "Angel, what are we going to do now?"

He's doing that thing where he's looking at me while he's trying not to look at me. I feel the painlustloveconfusion coming off him, bouncing off me, and boomeranging back to him. I hate this.

"I'm not sure what we can do," he says honestly. "This . . . " He gestures between us again, and I see my tears filling his eyes. "I don't think that I can pretend anymore, after this. Before . . . I thought I could." He shakes his head. "This is more than just wrong for *us*. It's just *wrong*. It's dangerous. Dawn is right. We've been fooling ourselves all this time. I don't think . . ." That we should see each other anymore. He doesn't say it, but I hear it and he's right. 

I feel like I'm losing a limb again. I HATE SEWERS!

"I think it's best if we split up, for now," he says at last. "Cool off."

He can't do it again. He can't break things off with me again. He can't be the one to say 'It's best if we don't see each other anymore.' Does that mean I have to do it this time? Because I don't know if I'm strong enough. How the hell did he manage to do it? I understand why, I've understood why for so long, but I still don't get how.

I'm crying, of course, as I give him the answer we both want to hear, and neither of us believes. "Right. For now. Just to . . . cool off. Cold shower or something." I frown and move toward him, though I don't make the mistake of touching him, no matter how much my fingers twitch with the force I exert not to. It makes me cry a little bit more when he backs away from me, even though I understand why. "Us . . . Angel, it's never been wrong for *me*. You need to know that. You're the only reason I'm alive today."

Then why do I feel like I'm saying all the things I've always wanted to say to him in case I don't get another chance? Why do I feel so much like I'm saying goodbye?

"I know," he answers, and I see all the remembered and current pain reflect itself on his features. "And you're the same for me, Buffy. You know that. I didn't mean that it's . . . wrong, but . . ." A look of pure agony flashes across his face and I will not touch him I will not touch him I will not touch him. "It hurts," he says simply. "And I don't think a cold shower is ever going to be enough." He looks at me longingly for a moment. "Will you be okay?"

"No." The answer is automatic and immediate, and it comes out a lot softer than I expected it to. Maybe because it isn't a sudden realization; I've felt it in my bones for a long time now. "I'm never going to be okay without you." The anguish washes through me like a tide until it sweeps away every speck of joy I've ever felt with him. I've hidden this anguish from him, in the interest of our friendship, but he's my BEST friend and I'm so sick of not being open to him. 

I watch as he visibly flinches. He knew, of course, how I felt. But I made it easier for both of us to deny it, just as he did. We sacrificed so much just so we could sit quietly with each other a few times out of the year; so that we could exchange letters and greedily devour the details of each other's lives. Those details sustained me, as I'm sure they sustained him, and now . . . now I don't know what to do.

"Yeah. I'll . . . see you back at the hotel later," he says with difficulty. I nod, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks away, his head hung low. 

As soon as he's out of earshot, I let out a wrenching sob. I want to crumble to the floor and sob my guts out for a few hours. I feel like a bug somebody stepped on. Then I got caught in the little grooves on the bottom of their shoe, and they had to scrape me against the sidewalk a few dozen times to get me completely free. That's me, splattered on the pavement, completely unrecognizable as the being I once was.

I don't get to break down, though. I don't get to let my heart and soul shatter. I have things to do, and people to save, and a demon to kill, and a shower to take. Gathering his jacket around me as armor, I make sure I've given him enough time to get out of the sewer, then head down the same path back to the hotel. 

After I shower, I am so kicking Spike's ass to let off some tension.


	9. Angel: Agatoire is the Answer... But What Was the Question Again?

I take the long way back to the hotel after leaving Buffy ((soaked, half-naked, panting with need)) in the sewer. I feel like the worst kind of monster over what just happened. How could I have attacked her like that? Like we were a couple of animals caught up in the fire of a mating rut? How could I have just thrown her down in the mire and taken her ((touched her... tasted her )) like she was some wanton slut created solely for my pleasure?

Not to mention the fact that I'm *forbidden* that pleasure. If it hadn't been for Buffy's exclamation of terror (("ANGELUS!")), we might be facing the very worst part of me right now. I was already almost there... almost washed away in a tidal wave of perfect bliss... caught in the siren call of her warm, soft, hot body ((home...)). I didn't know anything but her scent... her taste... the feeling of her hands and fingers and lips and legs everywhere around me, on me, digging deep into me, looking for the same something that I was searching so desperately for in her...

I'm so confused. So terrified and lost and obviously going mad, that all the wandering in the world isn't going to help. It's like those years after I first got my soul... only the nightmares are erotic dreamvisions, the ghosts are alive to haunt me with sweet, living flesh, and the keening echoing in my mind is of pleasure, not pain.

I hurt. Every inch of my body, from my still-swollen erection, to my cold, dead heart, is wracked with pain.

Why is this happening? Why now? Why here? Why are all of the things Buffy and I have been successfully dealing with for years suddenly no longer the dull, aching, longing we've grown used to, hovering softly like a halo of light just outside the strong fortress of our friendship, but suddenly throngs of bloodthirsty, living things armed with piercing weapons storming the gate to destroy us?

The Powers sent me here. Sent us here, I imagine. But what I fail to understand... fail to even wrap a single one of my overwrought brain cells around, is WHY. Is it another one of Their twisted tests to see if I'm worthy of redemption?

The last time I was tested, it was Darla. I can look back on that with 20/20 hindsight, now... understand why she was put in my path, and what I had to learn from that confrontation. I needed to face the part of myself that she represented... that part of my past. I needed to wallow in it, almost drown in it for a while, and then learn to let it go. Which I did... eventually. 

But this? What lesson could Buffy and I possibly learn from this that isn't already seared into our hearts? What truth could this trial serve us that isn't already a scarred over wound ((now reopened and bleeding)) in our souls? We can't be together. We can't touch one another. We can't love one another. The gravity that forever draws us toward one another is the catalyst of a weakly tethered tempest, just waiting to be unleashed and ravish the world. We know all of this already... all too well. That knowledge has almost destroyed us more than once, and this morning's near-apocalypse in the sewer is just the latest in a long, gut-wrenching line of reminders.

Reminders. Oh... God.

It can't be that, can it? We can't have been sent here to actually be *forced* to learn those lessons again, up close and personal, can we? They can't have shoved us into some sort of rutting madness to remind us that we ((You're not friends. You'll never be friends. You'll be in love till it kills you both. You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other till it makes you quiver, but you'll never be friends. Love isn't brains, children, it's blood... blood screaming inside you to work its will. )) can't be friends, can they? Would they be that cruel, to take away the one true lifeline I've managed to find in my cold, dark eternity? The best friend I've ever had?

The possibility settles like a ten-ton stone on my already broken heart, and it's all I can do not to drop down right there in the House of Pleasure's subbasement and weep like a child.

I can't. I can't walk away from her again. I'm strong... I can survive a lot of things... but that is very simply not one of them. Not anymore. Buffy's presence in my life more essential to my survival now than it ever was before I tried to learn to live without her. 

But I can remember with vivid clarity the sensation that took me down in the sewer. I can remember my good sense evaporating like a mist in the heat of her skin... the soft caress of her breath... the damp pleasure of her mouth, the Gates of Heaven calling me from between her legs, her arousal a heady drug I was unable to resist glutting on. That power, whatever it was, had subdued me, shoved my sensibility down without any fight at all on my part. One moment we were talking, and the next...

I couldn't say no. Literally. I lost the ability to *think*, let alone stop... speak... move. I very nearly threw everything--my soul, our lives, and very possibly the world--away, and wouldn't have given a whimper in protest until that pain hit and ripped me to shreds ((and the rain stung like needles falling from the sky and I screamed her name as I fell to my knees as if to warn her but it was toolatetoolatetoolate))).

(("ANGELUS!"))

I was so incensed by the moment that it didn't seem wrong that she screamed that name... that hated label of all my worst sins. The bliss of our joining after so long apart was on her too, even as she was fighting for control, and the cry was almost orgasmic:

(("ANGELUS!"))

My mind thought, 'Yes!', even as my soul wrenched without words. And when my mind cleared, my heart shattered for the split second that I actually believed, in the haze of my dementia, that she was calling out his name ((how DARE she!)) while she was making love ((fucking)) with me. I didn't pull away from her mere centimeters before I was sheathed to the hilt in her warmcomfort because I came to my senses and remembered that this was wrong... I jumped back because I was hurt that she cried out his name.

(("ANGELUS!ANGELUS!ANGELUS!"))

Then I realized in a flash that she was screaming to me in warning... in fear... in her own remembrance. 

That was far, far worse.

My next thought was... what had we done? What had *I* done? Because she was right, when she was yelling at me in Jackson Square last night... I never thought her capable of debauchery... of animalistic... anything. She was above all of that, and this disaster, like every other one that had ever befallen us, was my fault. Mine, because I am 250 years old and I'm supposed to know better. I'm the one with the curse, I'm the one who's supposed to suffer, and I'm supposed to be the one with my hand on the emergency brake. I'm the one who should say no, stop... who should always say no, stop and only once did...

The concierge is blessedly absent from the front desk when I pass by, and I forsake the elevators for the privacy of the staircase, because any moment, I'm going to break... I'm going to shatter and scream and fall to the ground in bloody pieces because it Hurts. So. Much. To have been so close to her... so close, and yet so... far. Always so goddamn far. And even though I know we were Lucky that she had the sense to shout that name ((like a bucket of icewater in the superheated air)), my body regrets. Aches and hungers and regrets, and my skin has that too-tight, burning feeling again, only worse than before. The only mercy I can hope for now is that the room will be empty, and I can drink my carefully allotted two pints of Cold and Dead and pass out into dreams of her where we always finish what we begin, and I can forget the past 48 hours ((three years... five years... eight... two hundred...)) ever happened at all.

My head is spinning. Literally whirling... my thoughts like wild beasts electrified, screaming from here to there, and I'm SO HUNGRY... for her for blood for death for relief for sleep, and I can't possibly look at another human being today.

My fingers tremble so hard, I fumble with the key for what feels like a good chunk of forever, and I'm reminded of my idea to go swimming in the murky, filthy Mississippi to wash away this... hungerwantneed...

The lock clicks, my hands shove, and I stumble into the dark and quiet and alone. Thank God, at last I'm safe... she's safe... they're all safe... the whole dimension is safe from me...

Both Wesley and Giles ((ohgoditsGileshe'llknowhe'llknowhe'llsmellheronme)) jump, startled from their frenzied reading by my sudden appearance.

And, no doubt, the thick, stinking muck covering every inch of the clothes I'm wearing that were torn and tossed away into the filth where Buffy and I writhed and rolled and frolicked and...

"Ah, Angel. You're back," Wesley Windham States-The-Obvious informs me. But his brow quirks, taking in my details... my appearance and the empty doorway behind me, and there's that recognition of Something Wrong that four years of an Oxford education and more of Watchers' Council training must have drilled into him so that it's now second nature. "Alone."

Giles' eyes narrow. He inspects the same empty space behind me - why is everyone so surprised to see that I'm alone? It's been years since Buffy and I patrolled together, and the only shadow I have most of the time is my own, for God's sake! Stop looking at me like I left my arm or my head ((my heart)) back in that sewer!

His kind blue eyes hold that tiny sliver of ice... that irrational fear that he tries to pretend isn't really there... that he doesn't remember and have nightmares and harbor that tiny puddle of frozen terror every time I'm in the room with him or alone with Buffy... ((tell me when it hurts...)))

"Alone?" the elder Englishman ((Buffy's father. Practically Buffy's father, and I feel like I've brought her home past curfew with her sweater mis-buttoned, her panties lost and her hair a rat's nest and hickeys all over her neck, except I haven't brought her home at all, I have I? I left her in the filthy underground because my libido was so out of control that my shame and self-loathing were barely powerful enough to drive me away before I took her there like a primal beast in the stench of the river's overflow...)) "Where's Buffy?"

((wheresbuffywheresbuffywheresbuffywheresbuffy))

Just thinking her name makes my already agonizing hard-on lurch, and... I'm fairly certain my entire body gives a jerk in response to the pain.

100 years of celibacy, and ONE almost-fuck in a SEWER has me unstrung to the point of complete and utter insanity.

And I'm suddenly struck by the urge to beg Wesley for help, because the last time I felt this out of control, this helpless, this overwhelmed and hot and sticky and NEEDING and...

Was... never, really. However out of my mind I might have gone over Darla, it was nothing like this. Frankly, even if I did try to tell him what was wrong, as I agreed always to do after we mended the fences and rebuilt our friendship from burnt out foundations ((you're all fired)), what could I possibly *say*? And Giles is here, now, so that's a whole new guilt. Lock up your daughters, men, here comes lecherous Liam - and not only is he a drunken, lazy, good-for- nothing, but now he's dead, insane, and horny enough to fuck his way through a Great Sequoia!

"She went for a walk," I hear myself grunt, "I'm going to take a shower."

And maybe try *not* to inadvertently masturbate, this time.

Although...

I'm naked, shower's on, and I'm ducking into the spray in two seconds flat. If there's *anything* I need right now, it's a tension release. I realize that it's perfectly natural to find pleasure with your own body, and I also realize that everyone *denies* that they do so. But I'm being perfectly honest when I say I *don't* indulge very often. There's that lingering uncertainty of what "Perfect Happiness" entails exactly, you see... and it might not be the orgasm, but that release in tandem with just the right memory or dream of Buffy, and BAM! Teachers are dead, Watchers tortured, and getting the entire world sucked into Hell sounds like a really amusing way to spend the afternoon.

((Hello, lover...))

But right now, I'm so close to the edge of something hot, wild and frantic, wrapped so tightly in utter terror and confusion that I just don't think a moment of Pure Bliss is in the cards.

The best I can hope for is some relief from this... torture. I rifle quickly through my mental filing cabinet of Inappropriate Carnal Thoughts, and in less than the time it takes for me to get a firm grip on myself and take that first sinful stroke...

We're in the mansion. It's dark, and there's a storm raging outside. The room is lit to a soft gold by a thousand candles, and she's beneath me, on her hands and knees, begging... 

"Fuck me. Harder... hurt me... please!"

And I do. I drive into her like the world will come to an end if I don't... I piston into her hot, wet, grasping, fluttering, superstrong channel, and we're a perfectly oiled machine of interlocking flesh, generating fire that swells the air to unbreathability. My fingers dig into the soft meat of her hips... dig deep enough to bruise, but that's okay, because they'll match the welts I'm making on her pelvis as I impale her body on mine.

"YES! HARDER!"

Harder. So hard that it hurts *me*... bruising the tip of me, the edges of me, drilling bleeding holes in my soul... it must be killing her...so hard that my dead muscles cramp and object with the effort, abdominals burning, thighs screaming, cock whaling hard against the entrance to her womb, and she's so tight... so hot... ohgodgodgoditssogooditssogood...

I reach down to clutch a fistful of her hair and yank her upwards, her sweat- bathed body flush with mine, and keep thrusting into her cunt as fangs slip from gums and with a snarl I tear into her throat. The blood is hotsweetmagick and the moment it hits my gullet, expands my every cell, my muscles go taught, my balls pull tight and I'm rightthererightthere. But quicker than the eye can see, she twists in my embrace, knocks me to my ass on the floor in front of the fire and now we're less machine and more pretzel and her blood is gushing down her chest and her eyes glow amber in the firelight and her own fangs glisten as she rips into me and I comeandcomeandcomeandcome with a scream that shatters every piece of glass in the room and she's screaming right along with me, tearing out a piece of my artery as she throws her head back in rapture.

"AAAAAANNNNNNGELLLLUUUSSSSS!"

****

It's even harder to meet their eyes when I return to the room. The physical tension in my body has eased some, but the burning not at all, and... 

Dear God, I nearly raped the love of my life in a puddle of filth beneath the streets of New Orleans.

((Only she wasn't saying no... she was saying yes. Begging. 'PleasecomehomeAngel'. She wanted me, and it hurt her to stop hurt her to say no, to say...))

((ANGELUS!))

And then I masturbated to visions of her as a vampire. The most vile, disgusting, abominable of my fantasies came automatically to my mind, and I *enjoyed* it... got off on it...

((ANGELUS!))

To say that I hate myself right now is like calling the Grand Canyon a big pothole.

And things are only going to get worse... I can feel the certainty of it creeping along my skin. I know what Buffy and I should do... or should not do ((I'm leaving. After the Ascension...)), because if this is what is born between us when the strain of being Just Friends gets to be too much...

Oh, good. There's Giles, with the industrial strength drum of guilt all cracked open and ready for me to drown in. For probably the millionth time since I rose to an army of vicious demons mining in my skull this morning, I wish I was dust on the breeze somewhere... anywhere but here.

"That certainly is a marked improvement. What on earth happened to you?" he inquires.

Oh, you know how it goes with forbidden love. We gave in to eight years of unfulfilled lust, and I almost fucked her like a beast in a sewer, but... don't worry, she stopped me in time and I ran off and left her there crying alone... "We ran into some trouble. It's handled."

It's hard to tell which I said aloud, and which I was just thinking. Giles simply nods, so I think I spoke the words I meant to, and left the others to rattle around in my aching head. He isn't really appeased... I can smell it on his skin. But this is the game we've continued to play since Jenny ((I never get tired of doing that...)). He so clearly ((and justifiably)) doesn't trust me, but his highly trained consciousness refuses to admit it and so he'll take whatever I tell him at face value even though it's a lie and what I did to Buffy this morning might be the most grievous sin of all...

This pain makes me wish I had the little hangover demons back again.

Wesley *knows*. I can see it in his frown. He doesn't know what he knows, but he knows he knows me, and he can tell in a split second that what was Wrong before is still Wrong now. He was there at breakfast... he saw what was happening between Buffy and I over coffee. Innocent coffee, like a hundred other cups we've shared since we've been "friends." (("Do you know anything about central air?" IwantyouIloveyouImissyouI'mdyinginsidewithoutyou "Hm. Know anything like... how to call the electrician?" shelaughslikemagickonmyskin "Never mind. Can you pass the sugar?"))

Friends. I'd laugh if it wasn't so pathetic an irony... and if Spike hadn't been the first one to point it out to us, all those years ago.

I hate Spike. I have to remember to hunt him down and beat the ever un-living crap out of him before I drag him to Buffy for his so badly deserved staking.

(("Angel, what are we going to do now?"))

Buffy... I can still hear her gut-wrenching sob echoing around in the tunnels like a curse screamed directly into my soul, even though I know she didn't mean for me to hear it at all. Just the memory of it tears yet another piece out of my already bleedingdying heart.

"Is Buffy all right?" Wesley asks... almost accusing... almost blaming, and God, I deserve that and so much more, but it still makes me ANGRY.

"What kind of a question is that?" I snap at him, "Of course she's all right! ((Lying alone, ravished and half-naked and weeping in the muck...)) What, do you think I'd just LET her get devoured by sewer demons???"

His mouth drops open in shock at my outburst, but Giles merely raises an eyebrow. He looks so calm, but I can see what's going on behind his eyes.

((Oh God. He knows. He knows too. They all know.))

"Yes, well, as that's precisely what Wesley just accused you of, your insane outburst is, of course, completely warranted," he says with barely veiled sarcasm, and pulls the largest, apparently oldest and moldiest of the table full of tomes between himself and Wesley, and hands it to me. "But I must say, your temper is hardly a surprise. While I was in England, I did some digging in the Council annals, and came across this."

I stare down at the book. "Hell in the New World." I blink at it, then raise my gaze and blink at Giles.

"What is it?" I ask stupidly.

He, thankfully, resists what is no doubt the urge to say, 'It's a book, you idiot, what does it look like?', choosing instead to leave what little remains of my dignity intact and give me the answer I'm actually looking for.

"It's a history of demon species who make their nests in North America. The United States, primarily, and the southern part of the country in particular. When last I spoke to Buffy, she mentioned that there was a... presence, here. Or, to use her words, a "really tense, wiggy vibe that's making everybody weird." That set off a few alarms in my head. You see," he grabs the book back from me and flips through the pages, until he finds a section he's marked with a cocktail napkin that reads, "YES! AGATOIRE!". I blink at that, too. 'Agatoire' is very, very Old French word, possibly medieval, for 'agitation'. "There is a species of demons about which countless legends have been told since the dawn of man, all of which are located in the hotter, moister climes of the planet: the rain forests of South America and Africa, southeast Asia and the like. The legends tell of a monster that..." he blushes a little, but presses on, and I swear I can almost guess what he's going to say, "Ehem... that makes people... er..."

"Horny?" Wesley grumbles.

Both of us turn to stare at him. He doesn't seem to be aware that he said anything. He glares in the direction of the curtained window, and...

I have the distinct sensation of pieces literally falling into place in my head.

"Yes, to put it bluntly," Giles confirms, and gives me a long, probing look as though he's searching for confirmation from me.

I fight to keep my expression neutral. I'm not telling him *anything* until I know more about this.

"Go on," I encourage him, but I can already feel relief pouring through me like a healing balm on the worst of my wounds. The possibility that the monster here might not be me...

Giles puts the book back on the table and glances down at it. "The Agatoire is a subspecies of what are commonly known as Rage Demons. Wesley has confirmed that you faced another subspecies several years ago in your hotel - a Paranoia Demon. As you know, this family of demons has the capacity to manipulate latent emotions in human beings, raise them to a fever pitch, and draw them out, whereupon they feed on the resulting emotionally-charged chaos."

The phantom scar around my neck from the lynching at the Hyperion in 1953 starts to itch. "I remember," I confirm quietly, automatically reaching up to scratch.

"Well, I delved further into this particular species, and came upon the "Agatoire". That is, as Wesley so colorfully described, a subspecies that drives... human mating instincts. These particular creatures make their nests, as I said, in hot, humid climes. They drive latent sexual energies to a fever pitch, and feed on the resulting... er... ecstasy."

I sigh. I'm relieved, yes, but still... the relief doesn't lessen the burning under my skin. And frankly, he's talking about *latent* energies. What Buffy and I have been experiencing... what happened in the sewer... wasn't something that the demon created... it was something already inside us that the demon magick simply brought to the fore. "I see."

Giles stares at me for a long time, and with a tone that is equal parts concern and controlled anger, he ventures, "You've experienced the sensation."

I force my gaze to his. "Yes."

Wesley is chewing hard on his lip, now paying attention to our conversation once more. "I'd wondered about Gunn and Cordelia's rather... uncharacteristically amorous demeanor since we arrived."

Giles nods, but his eyes don't leave my face. "I haven't had a chance to speak with the others, as they're still out on patrol, but I suspect they have also been feeling the pressure. Although... since Xander, Anya, Willow and Tara are in sexually active pairs, I doubt that they are feeling much by way of frustration. The magick of the Agatoire makes fighting the compulsion to mate a very uncomfortable experience. And, frankly... the harder the intended victims resist before they give in, the better meal they make. It's rather the difference between hamburger and french fries, and filet mignon with glazed young potatoes, for this creature."

I suspected he knew something had happened between Buffy and I... now I'm certain of it. 

Wesley's shoots me a pointed glare that makes me want to vanish into my seat cushion. At least now I know why he's been so cranky. Maybe I should tell him about the brothels on the south end... "Angel, what happened while you and Buffy were on patrol? Why didn't she return with you?"

Razor sharp pictures of our tryst in the sewer rush through me... her cries as she climaxed... the searing heat of her skin calling me, compelling me. The riot in my blood to take her... be inside her... consume her... drink her. And with those, the heat and tension that I had managed to dispel in the shower instantly return. I want her right now. I'd throw her on the bed five feet away, and the Watchers' presence be damned.

I swallow so hard, my ears pop.

"Angel?" Giles prods. 

"How can we stop it?" I ask, desperate to steer the conversation away from what almost happened between Buffy and I.

Both of my companions frown.

"I assure you, I don't mean to be indelicate," Giles says gently, "But... I think there can be little doubt of the attraction that still exists between yourself and Buffy."

I snort. Right. "Attraction"... as opposed to burning fire that is currently consuming my internal organs, my perpetual erection, and my blood screaming her name so loudly that I'm certain they can hear it through my skin.

The elder Englishman leans toward me. "There is no known way to counteract the magick, Angel. Until the end of the feeding cycle, the Agatoire's power is next to irresistable."

I look him in the eye. "We resisted it."

"But for how long?" Wesley yelps, leaping from his chair and pacing the room at a frantic rate. "How long before the two of you are swept away by this longing, itching, burning sensation that..." He stops when he notices the two of us staring at him, and his skin flushes crimson. "Er... that is to say... it, uh... it must be difficult, considering the history the two of you share." He forces his composure to return, and sits down once more, forcing on his business face. "Perhaps you should consider flying home, Angel. This isn't the sort of situation you should be trying to deal with, considering the consequences to us all if you fail to resist."

A rush of panicfear blazes through me. The idea of leaving is a whole new pain, and it sparks to life a raging debate in my head.

I can't leave Buffy. I can't leave her here. I can't leave her life. There's got to be a way we can still see each other. If we can't deal with this, how long will it be until what happened this morning happens again, demon magick or no? How long will it be until our carefully constructed fortress of repression explodes, and our own seething, starving monster breaks free to devour our will?

"I can handle it," I lie. I have to handle it. I can't lose her, and I can't give in to the compulsion. Lose-lose. It's always this, when it comes to her. I can't leave. I can't stay. I can't be near her, and I can't *not* be near her.

"Really," Giles comments. "Your appearance upon your return tells rather a different story."

My panic morphs instantly to rage. I realize now that it's at least partly the magick of the Agatoire, and knowing that, I manage to tamp it down enough not to shout. "We've managed for three years, Giles. Demon or no, we can control ourselves."

It's become practically second nature to ignore how badly I want her... to shove those emotions down into that Pandora's Box deep in my mindbodysoul's memory. To smile and nod and laugh and give her chaste little hugs and tiny cheek kisses when what I really want to do is...

Just to prove it to myself, I shove the erotic visions away. I mentally set my Inappropriate Carnal Thoughts filing cabinet on fire.

Giles watches my efforts with a researcher's eye, noting every small move and expression that passes over my face. I don't know if he really believes me... I know he doesn't fully trust me, and who can blame him when I'm not only a danger to the woman who is for all intents and purposes his daughter, but as a result of that, the entire dimension.

"I think this is exceedingly dangerous, and it's ridiculous to even put yourself in this position," Wesley gripes.

I scowl at him. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

He scowls back. "Well, really. Think about it, Angel. I've heard what happened when you were haunted by The First... what nearly happened between you and Buffy. And from what Giles has told me, this demon's power is twice as strong."

"We'll find it and kill it," I snarl. "End of danger."

Giles' outward expression doesn't shift, his tone remains tightly controlled, but I can smell his anger and fear increasing in his blood. "It's not that simple. The Agatoire's magick will increase until the final night of the feed. What you're feeling now won't get better... it will get worse."

I take a deep, and yes, desperately needed breath. It's a test. I know it's a test. Why else would they have sent us halfway across the country to end up in the same place, struggling in the same quicksand? It's a test, and if we are to remain in each other's lives, we *have* to pass it.

But what about the consequences if we fail?

I look from one man to the other, and will them to understand that we *can* do this. We *have* to. If we don't...

All will be lost.

"How do we kill it?" I repeat slowly, telling them in no uncertain terms that I'm *tired* of running. Buffy and I will deal with this together, the way we should always have been facing each of our trials. How many of the worst things we survived in the years we were separated would have been infinitely easier if we had just learned early on how to lean on one another?

Giles nods, apparently satisfied that I have this under control. "The demon uses the festival atmosphere of Mardi Gras as a hunting ground, according to legend. Given that, we can assume that the peak of the cycle will coincide at the peak of the revelry... tomorrow night. That is, consequently, when it is at its weakest. We need to find its location, and some two hours before sunrise, be prepared to attack. It can be killed by..."

He goes on, and some part of my brain absorbs the information. But the rest of me is already with Buffy, apologizing, telling her about the demon, shoring up the foundation of our hard-won friendship against what we are now facing.

Ignoring Wesley's disapproving glare.

We *can* do this. I know we can. We have to.

The alternative is simply unthinkable.


	10. Buffy: There's Always Time for TLC

He's out there.

Dressed in a terrycloth robe the hotel was kind enough to provide, still toweling my wet hair, I move to the window and draw the heavy black drapes shut. This morning, I asked the concierge why the hotel invested in the kind of window cover a vampire would kill for, given the 'no vampires' policy he seemed so fond of. He'd replied ((snottily, of course)) that New Orleans revelers traditionally preferred to spend their nights active, and their days sleeping. Blackout curtains were a must.

Whatever. It just makes me feel better to know Angel won't be burnt to a crisp. Especially since I can *feel* him loitering outside my room.

The shower helped me feel cleaner, but did nothing to cool me off. One might say it only made things worse, especially considering being under all that cold water just made me think of Angel more, and before I knew what was happening, I'd slipped into one of my favorite Angel fantasies. 

Two orgasms in the span of an hour, and still, there's no relief in sight for me. 

A knock sounds at my door, and I smirk; he's finally worked up the nerve. My head is bent over as I towel the underside of my hair, and I open the door without checking to see who it is. I felt him the second he started standing out in the hall. Damned feeling him inside THING. 

"Do you need an invitation?" I ask, without looking up. Then, I look up, because I'm all of a sudden getting bad flashbacks to that time he came to town and beat Riley up. Okay, so maybe not *bad* flashbacks, but . . . I wanted things to get started right, and now I feel bitchy and I'm mad at myself for feeling bitchy. 

Wow, it really is like that time he came to town and beat Riley up.

He looks as grouchy as I feel, and a little sheepish. "No . . . it's a hotel. Public accommodations." He walks through the doorway, as if to prove it, then proceeds to hang out like a dark shadow of depression, slouched in that way he has that always makes me want to give him a massage, with his shoulders slumped and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Nice room."

"Nice attempt at small talk, Cryptic Boy," I mutter under my breath. I know he can hear me, but I also know he lets me pretend he can't. It's something he's always done to humor me, and I really do love him all the more for it. Stop being a bitch. He's making small talk, participate, damn it! "Yeah. I found the hotel on the 'net, though this is the very last time I book travel accommodations without a translator."

Cocking ((Cock . . . Angel's cock . . . Angel's cock was nearly inside me not an hour ago and he's standing right there looking all creature of the night yummy and I just want to JUMP him)) an eyebrow, he smirks at me a little. "I think Cordelia may have found it on the same website." The smirk turns into a little half-grin. "Irony for Travelers, maybe?" 

"I don't think some of the people we're traveling with would subscribe to the 'irony' theory," I note wryly. That ball of dust on the other side of the room looks *fascinating* and I hurry over ((away from his smell and his Angel-y- ness)) to examine it more closely. "'The House of Pleasure' seems to a pretty accurate moniker, if the way everyone I know has been carrying on is any indication." 

I hate, hate, HATE this. Is fate trying to tell me something? Am I destined to NEVER be able to touch Angel, EVER? Is that what this has all been about? Because I can take the hint. I'm not even allowed the tiniest bit of comfort from him. I can't even be his friend without putting the world at risk. Got it. Check. You don't have to hit me over the head more than a dozen times. No Angel for me. 

Oh, God, how am I supposed to live in a world with no Angel?

And the worst of it is, I can't tell him any of this. All these thoughts and feelings I would have automatically spilled to him a few short days ago, and I couldn't share even one. We lost control in that goddamn sewer and it cost us everything. Things are weird between us again, awkward and unsure the way they haven't been in years and it's not fair, none of it is fair I just want him in life why can't I just have him in my life?

I think his gaze takes in the cleavage I wasn't aware was there, but I'm not sure because I'm not really thinking about it. Let him look. It's nothing he hasn't seen before, and he may not be able to touch it, but it belongs to him. *I* belong to him and I want him to claim me so badly and he can't and I've been dwelling on that way too much lately. 

Maybe that's what fate is trying to tell me. Maybe I need to accept the fact that Angel is off-limits to me. I've done it before ((We're ex, remember? I can lie to you if I want)) and somehow managed to survive ((dead and asleep like I'm zombie without him in my life he's part of me I can't do it I can't do itcan'tdoitcan'tdoit)). I can do it again. Sure.

He shuffles further into the room, trying to avoid me as much as I'm trying to avoid him and have I mentioned the hating this yet? His attention is momentarily caught by the ancient armoire in the corner, and he checks it out in that 'I know a butt-load about antiques' way that he has. He glances up at me again, and looks like he wants to say something about a dozen times before he actually manages to get any words out.

"That's . . . part of the reason I came to see you. Giles is here." What? Giles is here? Giles is here, here? 

"Giles is here?" I nearly screech. 

"He flew in this afternoon," he replies, a single eyebrow lifting, and looks a little (okay, a lot) guilty, but ignores my little outburst. "He thinks he figured out what kind of demon we're hunting," he adds.

Giles knows. Oh god he knows he knows what almost happened with Angel and me in the sewer and he caught a plane from England an enchanted plane that flies super fast and he's so disappointed in me, and all I can hear is white noise, punctuated by the sound (because it IS a sound, it's the most horrible sound) of Giles' disapproving frown.

Okay, okay, focus -- the thing we're here to kill. Giles knows what it is. Angel talked to Giles. Angel now knows what it is, and the sooner we kill it, the sooner we can get the hell AWAY from each other and start pretending none of this ever happened. Hell, I bet by Halloween we'll be back to kidding around with each other and deciding what freakish duo we can go out as. 

Oh, God, Giles must think I'm a whore. A *stupid* whore who can't even remember that she isn't supposed to *look* at her lover ((Not your lover, not anything to you but a friend, a good, dear friend that you just want to lick all over)) for too long, let alone *touch* him. 

I am an adult. I am not a hormonal teenager. I am in full control of my faculties, my emotions, and my body. I may *want* to reach out and touch Angel, but I *won't* because I am a mature, responsible . . . what kind of soap did he use? That's not the hotel's soap, he must have brought his own with him, he told me he did that once, I don't remember when, but I know he told me because he likes knowing what he's going to smell like; likes being able to control it. 

Angel's sort of a control-freak. I understand why, of course, and I'm a control- freak, too. I'm just less of one when I'm with him, because I know he'll take care of me. That's probably one of the main reasons I fell into such a comfortable rhythm with him, before, in Sunnydale, and later, as we became friends again. He's the only man -- demon, *being* -- on this planet capable of taking care of me. And while I don't need taking care of on a daily basis . . . it's nice. Knowing he's there. Knowing that if I were to fall apart, he would and could pick up the pieces.

And wow is this not helping me to keep from touching him.

"What does he think it is?" I say as calmly as I can manage, though given my state of mind, I'm pretty sure I over-compensated, and 'calm' turned into 'stiff and high-strung'.

For a minute, he looks at me in that way he has, where I can almost read his mind and I just know we're thinking the same thing. We're both filled with lust, and worry, and fear over what's happening to us. And there's something else, something, most likely, that he's about to tell me.

"Giles told me he was thinking about the fact that this demon is drawn to feed during Mardi Gras, especially, so he did some digging. It's an Agatoire. It . . ." He swallows stiffly, and I just know this is going to be one of those things that makes me all wiggy. Then he looks away from me, and I wonder if 'wiggy' might be understating things a little. "It, uh . . . amplifies latent sexual energy and . . . feeds on it."

If he could blush, the way he's stuttering, I'd bet all the money I have that he would be as red as Giles' face when I ((as vaguely as possible)) tell him what almost happened in the sewer earlier. He looks ashamed, too, and damn it, he *should* be ashamed, we *both* should be, but unfortunately, shame is probably the fourth strongest emotion I feel, right behind lust, love, anguish, and fear. 

"Feeds on it," I repeat numbly. The sarcastic bitch that lives inside my head comes to life. "I hope we're a nummy treat."

"I think that explains some of . . . Some of our friends' behavior," he says at last, and fine, I can play this game, too. We're colleagues, right? Same line of work . . . fine. Consult.

"Right." I give him a tight smile, but the more I think about my friends, the easier it becomes to *really* grin a little. "Thank God. I thought Willow and Tara were becoming nymphos. I mean, Anya and Xander have always been like that, but I thought at least my pal Will, I could trust to -- if not identify with -- at least respect my celibate state." I feel nearly giddy with relief -- it's not me! It's not them! It's some freaky-weird horny demon! "I don't think they've stopped touching each other since we got here. It's making me want to do bad things with sharp, pointy objects." Oops, there's the bitterness again. Because I'd be just fine if I could grope the one I adore. But noooooo. I have to be bitca Buffy. Stupid tunnel-vision gypsies.

Chuckling, he leans against an armchair and I want to melt into a puddle at his feet. I get the weirdest urges around him sometimes, ranging from that licking thing, to the almost overwhelming need to fall at his feet and worship him as a God. I'm a liberated woman, right? Thoughts like that just can't be natural, and I should stop feeling giddy right now, because I've been having urges like that way longer than there's been demon mojo working on us. 

"I know the feeling," he commiserates, and it takes me a minute to find the conversation tract again. Demon, Will, celibate, lusty friends, okay, got it. "Giles says the Agatoire casts something much like a magnetic field that pushes a person's hormonal level far higher than normal. The only way they can be . . ." He pauses, and sort of squirms a little, and I'd laugh and tease him out of this mood if the subject didn't make ME squirm a little, in light of . . . well . . . circumstances. "Alleviated," he says at last, "is to, uh . . ." He glances up at me, and I can tell the movement is involuntary, "Find sexual release."

Faster than a speeding bullet, he puts even more distance between us, and I want to scream that sexual release doesn't help one damn bit, because I've had a FEW really good 'releases' and it's done nothing. The only thing that MIGHT lessen this itch that's about to drive me around the last bend I have is if I were to pull him so deep inside of me that I could feel his cock in my throat . . and even then, I don't think it would be satisfied until my body had literally disintegrated with his, and oh, God, I'm willing to give it a shot if he is.

Yeah. Demon. Right. Responsible. Not me. Not us. It. Demon. Bad. Bad, bad, bad demon.

He's over by the closed drapes, and that's always made me nervous, how he gravitates toward wherever the light would be, if I hadn't kept it out for him. It's dangerous, and I've told him so, but he keeps going back, like a suicidal moth, and I can't chastise him about it right now, because I'd end up screaming because I'm so scared for us already and it would end with me hitting him, or worse, kissing him, because he just doesn't take enough care with his stupid, precious life. 

"We assume that it chooses Mardi Gras, in particular, because the Agatoire enjoys a hot . . . " He swallows, and I'm fascinated by his profile, by the movement of his Adam's apple and this must be the eight thousandth time today I've thought about what it tastes like. "Moist climate, and . . . with the amount of debauchery naturally going on in the city . . ." He shrugs, and sort of collapses into the armchair.

Sometimes, it's like he pulls my emotions out of me and then feels them so I don't have to. Right now, I think it's just that we're both on the same emotion train. At least, that's the only excuse I can come up with for why he seems to be emulating every feeling I have before I've even had a chance to feel it. 

His shoulders look so tense. I just want to walk over to him and run my hands over his tight frame until he melts, just like I know he will. If it were allowed, I'd stroke him like a cat until he purred for me, and then I'd stroke him some more because I *love* it when he purrs. I'd ease every last drop of strain from his beautiful, noble frame and then make love to him right there in that chair until he was so boneless he couldn't even raise his head to kiss me. So of course, I'd bend over him and kiss him and . . . 

There are so many levels on which this is completely unproductive. 

I wonder how much of this is me, how much of it is the demon. He said something about it turning things up a notch. Just how much is that, anyway? I mean, isn’t a "notch" like... a tiny bit? Not jerking the dial up to 10! Or... 500.

"H-how . . . " I clear my throat, because my voice should *never* be that high- pitched, and try again, without the lovinglascivious thoughts preempting my attempt at speech. "How much higher than normal?" My head hurts, and I think it's because my eyes are open way too wide, but I can't let my lids lower, because lowered lids make me think of long, lazy kisses and he's *right* *there* and it would be so easy to reach out and . . . "And uh . . . how soon can we kill it?" I choke out, because if I don't stop wanting him this badly, I *will* disintegrate.

"The answer to both questions," he says, gazing up at me out of the corner of his eye, "is . . . we don't know yet." Story of my fucking life . . . "This demon's extremely rare. But . . ." He leans heavily on the table, and he looks so tired and woah can't go there 'cause look where my sympathy for how tired he looks gets me? "Giles and Wesley are working on it now. We're hoping to have some idea of how to track it down before tomorrow night, when we assume its feeding cycle will peak." It takes a lot, I can tell, but he slowly manages to look me straight in the eye for the first time since I let him in. "Are you . . . okay?"

I successfully repress the hysterical laughter. I also don't scream 'No, I'm not okay! I haven't been okay for seven YEARS! Not since the last ((first)) time you took me to bed and filled me up and abandoned me ((You were just gone! I was freaking out!)) and told me I was bad ((I thought you were a pro)) and killed my Watcher's lover ((You just gonna let your old man burn?)) and LEFT ME ((I don't.)). 

I'm proud of myself because I don't rant out loud 'I'm losing you all over again! This demon ripped away my denial *and* my best friend with one massive hormone injection and it's all falling apart!' 

There's nothing I can say to him right now that even approaches the gated community of Honesty. I've been nothing but open with him (with the exception of all those deep, deep, deep buried wantsneedslusts that we both have, but don't talk about) for the last three years, and now we're back to awkward lying and platitudes. Because they're all I can offer him without getting us in even deeper.

So I offer up the only answer I can -- "Me? Peachy. Couldn't be better." -- and wait for him to respond in kind. Our co-dependent, self-destructive pattern from my senior year of high school returns. Hello to the pain, one more time. 

He does the weirdest thing, though. He doesn't offer a lame answer. He leans forward in his chair, offers me his 'How Stupid do you think I am?' head tilt, and follows it up with his 'I'm your best friend, don't bullshit me' gaze. It almost makes me cry, because he's been doing it to me for three years, and it's just the sort of thing he never would have tried back in high school. 

Then, he clinches the 'we are so not in high school anymore, Dorothy,' theory by speaking:

"Really," he comments sarcastically. "I'm glad to hear that. Because I, personally, am fairly equally torn between sheer joy in learning that I'm not turning into an insane barbarian, and . . ." Both his expression and his voice soften a little. "Concerned, because . . . this brings up a lot of things we haven't dealt with directly in a long time." 

"What am I supposed to say?" Hey, tears, welcome back. I've missed you for the last two minutes. Pull up a chair and join the party. Fuck him ((please, can't I?)), anyway. He's forcing me to confront instead of repress, when the only way I've been able to survive the last five years of my life is through careful repression of dangerous emotions and doesn't he know how hard this is for me when all I want to do is crawl into his lap and disappear inside of him for the next hundred years or so, you know, just until I feel up to facing the world again. "Tell me what to say," I practically plead, "and I'll say it, whatever you want to hear. But, Angel, it's like opening up Bandana's box."

"Pandora's," he says off-handedly. It's an automatic response, like a comfortable old habit, and the tears renew their acquaintance indubitably.

"Pandora's," I whisper. I used to say every little thing that popped into my head when I was younger, never censoring myself, never worrying about what people might think. Giles used to sigh disapprovingly whenever I'd so grossly mis-pronounce something, even though I think he found it a little endearing. Willow would smile sadly, and no doubt wonder why such a brainiac like her was friends with an obvious airhead like me. Xander would tease, and Mom would worry over my grades. 

Angel, though . . . he always gave me the right answer. It never felt like he was correcting me, just . . . giving me pieces of his wisdom. That's how he made it feel, at least, and it's one of the things I missed the most during The Great Freeze Of '99/2000. The first time he told me "It's Caritas, not Carrot Top" I nearly burst out crying because we were back, at least a little bit, and I promised myself that nothing would ever take that away from us again.

And now, something is.

I flop down on the table in front of him, facing his chair. "Do you know you're the only person who's ever corrected me without pissing me off?" I ask softly.

The little smile he gives me just makes me sad, because he's so clearly forcing it. "You're definitely the only Slayer I've ever felt comfortable correcting," he jokes weakly. He's trying to be cute, and light, but . . . I see how worried he is. I see how much this is hurting him and scaring him. "As for what I want you to say . . . I want you to say whatever you want to say. Or . . . say nothing, if you'd rather. I just thought that you should know . . . what happened in the sewer this morning wasn't . . ."

"Wasn't really us," I finish for him blandly. "Right." Oh, how I wish I sounded even the slightest bit convincing. "Yay us. Raging hormones blamed on the Big Bad Demon." I look at him, really look at him for the first time since I let him in. I take in the chocolate brown eyes that almost always look like they've done something wrong, even when he's just woken up. I see his proud nose that would definitely be the nose I've often caught myself thinking our children would have, the mouth I could kiss for days and not get tired of . . . 

"You don't want me to be honest right now," I say at last, my voice quietly and serious. "You want me to nod, and agree that what happened earlier is because of the demon, and we won't have to worry and tra-la-la." I think my heart is actually cracking in my chest. Either that, or I'm about to fall over dead from a coronary. What an undignified ending for a Slayer. "You don't want me to be honest right now," I repeat. "*I* don't want me to be honest right now."

Blinking at me for a moment, he's clearly stunned. I haven't been that harshly honest with him . . . since the first time I broke up with him after he came back from Hell. He shakes his head at me, a little frown pulling at his mouth.

"I don't . . . That's not what I want at all. I think . . . we need to be honest with one another about this. We're friends, Buffy. I trust you, and I think you trust me. We should talk about what’s happening here, because these aren't feelings the demon *creates* . . . it just brings them out. Let's deal -- the way we always have best: together." 

My lower lip gets imprisoned nervously by my teeth, and I regard him for a moment. "I guess it is about time we had TLC," I note.

He looks confused. "Tender Loving Care?"

I shake my head. "The Lucid Conversation."

Apparently up for that, he turns his chair so we're facing each other without straining anything, in full 'active listening mode': his face the familiar, grim, determined, detective stoic mask I've grown so used to since I started playing amateur private eye with him on occasion.

Seeing him trying so hard, loving me enough to bother, mends my cracked heart and busts it wide open again in the same breath. If he's going to try, though, then so am I. I make sure I'm properly aligned with him on the cool marble table. Normally, I'd envy him the comfy chair, but I need all the cooling off I can get right now. 

God, now I've got the perfect view of him, and . . . "Sometimes I think this whole thing would be easier if you weren't so beautiful," I sigh, forcing my concentration to some hopefully more productive ground. "Angel," I begin again, "you know I trust you. With everything. But . . . this is exactly the kind of situation you and I get ourselves into where the worst possible thing is for us to *be* together. My God, look at what happened earlier!"

I'd give almost anything to be able to read his mind right now. The heartbreak we both feel is obvious, and he seems to be struggling with himself: to what end, I'll probably never know. If he's fighting off the same urges I am, he's pouring all his considerable willpower into not touching me right now. I can also see the automatic reassurance, the 'it'll work out, Buffy, it always does' that he's keeping down because he doesn't believe it any more than I would.

"I know it's . . . difficult. But . . . we have to remember, some of the intensity, at least, has to do with the demon. What we're feeling isn't usually so . . ." His voice drops, into an almost wounded purr, and I have to remember to reign in my maternal instincts *and* my libido. "Overwhelming."

Let's pretend all my emotions are a garden, and the love I feel for Angel is a night-blooming rose. It flourishes, even at the worst of times, but right now, with what he just said, it wilts. Because . . . it *is* this overwhelming for me. I haven't been feeling this ache, this nearly uncontrollable longing to be with him in every way since I got to New Orleans -- I've been feeling it from the moment I read his damned letter with his beautifulcareless I love you. The demon is just making sure I focus on it to the exclusion of nearly everything else. 

"Isn't it?" I ask him in what sounds to me like the voice of a lost child. My damned lower lip is trembling uncontrollably and I bite down on it harshly to keep it *still*. I hate how weak it makes me feel, I hate feeling weak, period, even around him, even around the one person I've always felt safe enough with to *be* weak. "Angel, if I let myself, I completely lose control around you. And it *is* overwhelming. The difference is, without some horny demon controlling me, I can slip back into the 'just friends' mode without feeling like someone's dragging razor blades over my skin. It still cuts just as deep, though. I'm just better at hiding it. Even from myself."

His eyes close, and I know he's been doing some hiding of his own. I know he wants me. I do. No matter how insecure I get sometimes, deep down inside, I know he wants to make love to me as badly I want to make love to him, and it kills him that we can't. Considering the imagination behind my own fantasies, I'm betting he's had some doozies, given that he's been around a hell of a lot longer than I have.

"I'm sorry," he says at last, interrupting my recollection of a dream I once had involving us, his bed at the Hyperion, a bottle of baby oil, and a blindfold. "I didn't mean . . . that I don't want you all the time. Just as fiercely. When I wrote you that letter, Buffy, it was . . . I just said it . . . or . . . wrote it, or whatever." He looks frustrated for a minute, and he takes in an unnecessary breath. It's always fascinated me how that calms him. "It was natural," he says simply. "I didn't even think twice about it until after I'd already mailed it. I know I crossed a line, but . . ." He looks into my eyes in that wounded, loving ((savemehealmeholdmeloveme)) way that kept me from staking him a thousand times, most notably when I thought he'd attacked my mother a billion years ago. 

"I couldn't help it," he explains at last, his voice a little hoarse. "It's the way I feel. And maybe . . . what's happening here is just a sign that I can't . . . that *we* can't . . . live in denial anymore."

"I know," I whisper, and I wonder our voices are hoarse for the same reason -- because we're trying not to cry and the tears are burning our throats. I bring a hand up to touch his cheek, then snatch it back at the last minute. "Damn it, I can't even touch you! Every single thing that feels nothing but natural to me . . . and I can't do it. I'm not allowed to do it." I feel defeated, and my lips are dry, but so is my mouth. I'm parched for the touch of his lips to mine, but I can't have that, so I run my tongue over them instead. "Angel," I nearly whimper, "I hurt so much because I can't be with you the way I want, that I can barely *breathe* some days." 

There's that itch, getting to be as familiar a friend as the tears, and it's clawing at me, demanding I scratch it, that I let *him* scratch it until there's nothing but bliss between us. 

And bliss has never been a friend of ours.

"And I don't want to take this out on you," I continue, because I really do feel bitchy, like I'm picking on him, "and I don't want to hurt you, because this isn't your fault, but . . . you're right. We can't live in denial anymore. And I don't think I can snap back into ‘buddy mode' again, not after . . ." ((I've been so cold inside without you. Standing right next to you and remembering . . . Your warmth. I need you, Buffy. I can't be without you anymore.)) "My stupid heart keeps wanting everything it can't have, and it's just worse here, that's all. Impossible to push down. But it's the same back home, and the way you closed your last letter just proves it, don't you see? It always comes down to the same old issues, the same old frustrations, and . . ." 

I don't think I can do it anymore.

Somehow, I keep myself from saying it, but it feels like I screamed it out at the top of my lungs. If the look on his face is any indication, I might as well have. The thought of not seeing him again, of having *nothing* of him again guts me like nothing else, but if something doesn't break, *I* will, either by completely losing my mind, or by letting him lose ((I want to take comfort in you, and I know it'll cost me my soul, and a part of me doesn't care)) himself in me. 

The pure agony I feel is written perfectly across his face and I know he knows from where I speak, because there's that déjà vu feeling again, except this time I'm the one who's leaving town and he's grasping at straws he knows can't hold our weight anymore to keep me with him. He hadn't been trying to point out that we might need to separate completely again, I can tell from the shocked horror coming off him in waves, but then, I hadn't really been expecting it either, even though I'd been dreading it.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" he asks me flatly. "Stop talking again? Go back to the way things were before your mother passed away?" He starts to get angry, and I remember that anger ((You have a heart? It isn't even beating!)), I remember the righteousness it lends, how it becomes the only defense left when your lover, your *love* is ripping both your hearts out because it's 'what's for the best'. "Is that an acceptable solution to you? No late-night phone calls, just because I needed to hear your voice? No more weekend visits or holiday trips? Just waste every day and every night *wondering* how the other is doing?" He shakes his head. "No. I'm not willing to do that. I can't. I'm sorry."

Oh, he's sorry. He's not willing to do that. I wasn't willing, either. I wasn't willing to have him leave me, I wasn't willing to go on with my life without him, but that happened whether I was willing or not. Because *he* knew what was best. And now, again, *he* knows what's best, and I can't believe he's *angry* at me when I *warned* him--

"--Don't you dare get angry at me for being honest with you LIKE YOU WANTED. I told you that you didn't want to hear it, I told you that you wouldn't like it." I feel wounded and pissed and affectionate all at the same time, and they each seem to be feeding the other. 

That deep breath is filling his dead lungs again, and that's right, buddy, you better breathe through it before I forget how much I love you and beat the crap out of you. 

"You're right," he admits after a moment. "I'm sorry." Some kind of debate finishes in his head, because he reaches out and enfolds my hand in his, and God, he's shaking, the only time I can remember him shaking was when we made love, and he was so afraid for me. He held himself still above me, and he literally shook. At the time, I thought it was because he was trying not to hurt me, but now, I think he was as moved, as affected as I was. It was my first time ever, but it was his first time in a long, long time, and the only time he's ever made love with someone. 

"I wish things could be different," he continues, squeezing my hand. "Believe me . . . there are more times than I count when I'm near you that I think I might go insane if I can't . . . touch you. But we agreed, a long time ago, that we would try this. Do you . . ." He can't even look at me, and I feel his fear seep through our skin where we're touching. "Do you think we need to reconsider?" he whispers.

"I don't want to," I answer immediately, which is the truth. I hate that I'm hurting us, I hate *myself* for hurting him, and I lean forward and force myself to place my free hand on his knee. "But . . . Angel, you can't say it's been a total success. We have to be so careful around each other, and sometimes I miss you when you're in the same room, and it hurts so much every time I have to leave you . . .every time I have to say goodbye."

Nodding, he still avoids my gaze. "I know. I know it does." I feel it jolt through him, the pain of every goodbye, however temporary, that we've shared. The agony is blinding and I want to kick and scream and throw things at how unfair it is. He finally looks at me again, and his eyes are filled with tears. "But not as much as it hurts never being able to say hello; as much as it does being apart."

God, he's right, and he's wrong, and it's such a mess. Leaning forward, I press my forehead to his and swallow deeply, because if I start crying before I say this, I'll never say it, and I really, really think it needs to be said. "God, all I ever want to do is kiss you." Okay, that wasn't what I wanted to say at all, it just came out. Focus, focus, focus. I pull back from him just enough to make eye contact. 

"Angel . . .it *does* hurt me as much. When I don't get to see you, or have you with me, I shut down, like missing an arm, or my heart or something--"

He takes both of my hands in his, and speaks very, very softly, "Wouldn't you die without your heart?"

A sigh leaves my mouth, because he always has to take me so *literally* and I *do* die a little bit without him, but at least it's quick. A fast, painful death that I have a teeny tiny fraction of hope of getting over.

"Fine," I mutter, "my arm then. The point is, I deal. And then I see you again, and everything's perfect for five minutes until it really hits me all over again how much I want of you that I can't ever have. And then one of us has to walk away, and I die every single time." I dig my nails into his hands for emphasis. "It's a miracle I’m still breathing, I've died over you so many times."

Tears are spilling down his cheeks now, and he doesn't even flinch at the physical hurt I just caused him. "I'm sorry, Buffy. Believe me, the last thing I want is for you to be in pain. But . . . honestly? Is being *numb* really better than the pain? At least that *means* something . . . we *feel* something, and no matter how frustrating and heartbreaking that feeling may be, it's still born from something rare and beautiful." One of his hands moves up to stroke my cheek in the softest caress I think I've ever felt, and I remember the things he used to tell me ((It's nice, just to feel)) before it got too hard to be safe as houses. "I can't go on without you in my life, now," he vows quietly. "Not after we've worked so hard and been through so much together over the past few years. You're my best friend, Buffy."

I feel like a puppy kicked to a curb, or a little girl nobody liked, and suddenly, the most amazing person in the world says he wants me. He needs me.

"I'm your best friend?" 

"Of course you are," he murmurs with his sad Angel-smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and that feels so good . . . "Sometimes my only friend. You always have been. And I can't lose that. I can't lose *you*."

Returning his gesture with a sad Buffy-smile of my own, I can't help but lean into the hand that leaves me too soon. "You too," I sniffle, because I didn't want to cry, but at this point, it's either kiss him or lose control of the wailing, and since he's already blubbering like a baby . . . "You've always been . . so central to me, Angel. The only calm thing in my whole world. The only person that's ever made *me* calm." 

Hours spent meditating with Giles, learning different disciplines and crystals and chants, and it doesn't give me even a tenth of the peace I get from sitting quietly with this man, listening to him listening to my heartbeat. 

"I can't even tell you how amazing it's been getting to know you the way we never really had a chance to, before. And I love being able to spend time with you, just doing stupid things like dinner and movie night at Cordelia's and . . . I love it all. But can you honestly say--" I lean toward him, intending to press a brief 'see, I told you' kiss to his lips. I only linger a few seconds longer than I mean to, and he draws a quick intake of breath as soon as our lips make contact. As we part, I murmur, "Can you honestly tell me it won't kill you to see me and know that you can never touch me the way you want to? The way I want you to?"

I'm fighting against this harder than I thought I ever could. Part of me is terrified of getting hurt again, and I think, part of me is trying to test his resolve. I want him to fight for me, damn it. I want him to be as invested in this as I am, without taking all the ready-made escape clauses at our disposal. 

And maybe, I want him to convince me that I’m wrong.

He takes a good, long while before he answers me, and I know he's trying to think of the perfect thing to say that will make me give up this fight. And, God, I want him to. Even though I think we're doomed, as long as he's in this a hundred percent, I think I might be willingly condemned. After all, at least we'd be doomed together. 

"No," he says at last, "I can't. But Buffy . . . the pain is worth it -- to me. Just to be able to see you. To look into your beautiful eyes . . . to see you smile. I know it's not a lot -- definitely not even close to everything -- but it's so much more than we ever dreamed we'd get to have, isn't it?"

"No. It's not." Swallowing deeply, I squeeze his hands. Somewhere along the way, our fingers got laced together, and they look so *right* like that . . . "I've always wanted more than I could have. To be a normal girl, to be a Slayer when it didn't interfere with a dance, or some stupid boy . . ." I let myself be open to him, let him see *me* the way I don't think I have since I was 17 and set on giving him everything that I was. "I've compromised everything I've ever had in my life. I don't think I can compromise you. Not anymore. Not after . . ." ((Now. I can't wait anymore. I can't . . . you're mine. I have to . . . have you . . .)) "I'd almost managed to forget, you know?" More tears. Tears, tears, tears, falling down my cheeks and getting lost in the big fluffy hotel-provided terrycloth robe.

"I have these dreams," I go on, "about us, and that's what they seem like -- dreams. These things my mind has cooked up that are way better than it ever was; than it ever could be." (("Do you think about being inside me as much as I think about having you inside me?" "Is this about your inner-slut musings? Because we've talked about that.")) "But . . . the truth is, the dreams aren't better. In fact, they don't even come close to touching what we could . . . what we *can't* . . ." I'm out of words, so I make a frustrated sound that's half-growl half-scream in the back of my throat. "I hate this!" I whine, fully aware of how immature I sound.

"I know," he says hollowly. He gets up and wanders back to the French Doors, grabbing a handful of curtain. The gesture makes me worry, makes my heart clench, and makes me angry at him, all at once. He so badly wants to look out at the street, to do *something* and he can't, because of the sun. As though he read my mind, he turns away and starts pacing the room restlessly and God, he's still crying and I'm still crying and if he really can read my mind, please, please let him pick up on how badly I want to hold him right now because I can feel his heart breaking. 

Boy, this conversation is going a lot differently than it did five years ago. What a difference us being friends and me being mature makes. If it weren't for this itch-burn under our skins, I bet we wouldn't be nearly this hysterical.

Okay, so maybe not, but I need to hold onto a *shred* of denial.

"I never wanted you to have to compromise anything," he says at last, and I can feel how angry and frustrated and sorry he is. "Ever. And I didn't want to ever put in this position again! I just . . ." He stops his frantic movements, and moves toward me again, practically falling at my feet the way I remember so long ago the first time he recognized me after he . . . came back . . . from Hell. 

His big hands are swallowing mine again, and we're crying and crying and crying . . . "I *need* you, Buffy," he says in that raw, honest way he has. "I can't do this again." He's starting to break down, and this *is* just like when he came back from Hell, except we're both losing it, scared of returning to a different kind of Hell, and he lays his head in my lap, sobbing. "Please, Buffy, please . . . I can't."

I can't either. And I never wanted to. And if he gets to curl up in my lap, then I get to curl up around him. My hands are already in his hair, smoothing down his back, scratching at his scalp soothingly, without the animal edge that took over me before . . . and so not going there. Curling my upper body until I can rest my head against his back, I cradle his head to my lap and sob with him. 

"Shh," I shush us both. "I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry. I don't want this, either, but . . . I don't know what else to do." He must have felt like this, when he left, like curling up into a little ball and sobbing with how much he didn't want to leave, but instead he was strong, for me, and for us, and he probably saved us by leaving, no matter how much it hurt. And I love him for that, for that and so many other things, and this is so *right* to be holding him this way, and so wrong that it's so dangerous.

My lips find the curve of his ear, the side of his neck, and I know those kisses have a fine edge of hysterical desperation to them, but it can't be helped, because I'm panicking over the idea that this may really be the last time I'll ever be able to hold him this close and God this *is* what he felt and he still did it, he still did what was right and he'd never been weak enough to hold me like this, like he'd never let go, because all he ever wanted was for me to be as free of him as possible. 

He was nothing but as true and standup and noble as could be, and I'm selfish and horrible and all I want is to hold onto him as long as I can.

"Please," I beg quietly, still hiccupingsobbingsniffling against him, "please just tell me what else I can do..."

The sobs coming from him are loud and wrenching, and I wish I'd been able to hold him better the last time I heard him make them. I'd been too stunned, too afraid to believe, too worried over what came next to drop to my knees and hold him back. Eventually, with my hands in his hair, he'd calmed enough and let me lead him back to the mansion where he'd fell into his first of many fitful sleeps. 

My heart ached for him then, and it aches for him now. It aches for us both.

"I don't know. I don't know, Buffy. You're the only foundation I've ever had. The only thing I've ever really been sure of. I can't let you go this time. I won't." He pulls away, his face glistening with the evidence of his pain and his resolve, and if I weren't so miserable, I'd smile with how much I'm loved by this flawed, beautiful man. "We have to find a way." His fingers on my face, wiping tears away, silencing the loudest of my sorrow, at least for now. He's always been so good at that. "I don't care what it takes," he promises me tenderly, "I walked away from you once, and it almost destroyed me. I won't do it again. To either of us."

Buffy's Boneless Body decides it can't sit in the chair anymore, and I go sliding down on my knees in front of him. Our bodies are touching now, and I want so badly to say 'to hell with it' and kiss him and maul him but I don't, because if this has even the tiniest chance of working, we have to be strong . . . but maybe just a little, tiny weakness . . . 

Leaning forward, I kiss him, because I'm stupid and I hate that he's crying and I want him to stop. "Maybe..." I'm still way too close to his mouth for coherent thought, but I refuse to back down. We can do this. We can fucking do this. "Maybe we shouldn't carve anything in stone while we're so . . . unbalanced by this thing." 

I'm not sure I believe what I’m saying, but sometimes even false hope can keep you alive another day until you can find some *real* hope. At least, that's one of the bedrock principals I've lived my post-Calling life on, and it's worked out pretty well so far. I'm still here, aren't I? Besides -- I barely survived the summer after he left. I don't know if I can put either of us through a repeat performance.

Then I'm not thinking about being without him because he pulls me back to him . . . gently . . . and kisses me again . . . softly, so softly . . . and audibly sighs in relief as he pulls away to look me in the eye. He's nodding, and he's trying to pull himself together, and I can almost tell him to give it up, 'cause it's not going to happen, but I like to give him his illusions, too, because he might need them one day.

"I think that's a good idea," he agrees. "When we're away from here . . ." His gaze ticks around the room like he can see the demon lurking in a corner, sprinkling magic horny dust on us. "We don't know how strong this thing is . . . the . . . demon, I mean, and how much it might be manipulating us." Professional Demon Hunter goes away again, and my lover ((always my lover no matter what)) returns, his face an amalgam of emotions -- relief, pain, weariness, joy, love . . . and he pulls me toward him again, claims my face between his big, strong Angel-hands, and looks fiercely into my eyes. 

"It kills me, not being able to love you the way that I want to. Not being able to share a life with you. And I know we've reached critical mass, here . . . but I believe in us. I believe in our friendship, and the strength of our bond. I know that there's nothing -- *nothing* -- we can't live through , as long as we stand together. I believe that with all of my heart and soul. I know we can't go back to the way things have been over the past couple of years. But we don't have to. We can move on from here . . . and deal. We can find a way. Please, Buffy . . . let's ride this thing out together . . . see how the next few days go. If we can resist the Agatoire, and the way it manipulates our emotions . . . don't you think we can handle our day-to-day lives?"

"I want to believe that so much." (("We don't get to spend enough time together." "You and your sacred duty that won't let you leave the Hellmouth." "*You* and *your* sacred duty with Cordelia and her visions that always happen within the Los Angeles City Limits.")) "I just don't know if it's realistic." I laugh to myself. "Since when did I get assigned the job of the rational one, anyway?"

He smiles at me, and ohhh I could just eat him up. "I don't know. When did I turn into the selfish and greedy one?" He chuckles, and we stand up, though we don't leave the comfortable circle of each other's arms. I nearly point out to him that I am *not* greedy, but then I think, yeah, I am, when it comes to him, and besides, he looks pretty happy (but not *too* happy) and I don't want to spoil it. "We can do this," he says earnestly. "I know we can. I love you . . . more than anything. I value your friendship more than my soul. I'm willing to try, if you are."

"I love you," I answer, and I've hated not being able to say it, it feels almost as good in my mouth as he does. Woah, bad thought, bad thought . . . but if we can somehow get this under control . . . I'm definitely going to tell him that I love him more. "I just need you to do one thing for me," I say, wanting this, at least, if none of it works.

I get another heart-melting smile. "It doesn't involve movies with Freddie Prinze Jr. in them, does it?"

Grinning back at him, I roll my eyes. "No, I swear. God, are you ever going to let me live that down?"

"Not if we both live forever," he promises me, pulling me a little closer. I like that. The closer. It may be unhealthy, but for now, I'm going with it. To hell with being sensible. I'm getting itchier by the second, and I'm not going to be able to take much more of this before I explode, but as long as I *can* take it, I'm going to take as much as possible. 

"Now," I say, forcing a stern expression onto my face, "are you done being a stand-up comedian? Because I really do need you to do something for me."

His smile gains a few lusty points, but he still seems in control. It seems that only deep, gut-wrenching angst can dampen the itchy-burning-lust for long. "You know I'd do anything for you."

Wrapping my arms around his waist, I look up at him innocently. "Kiss me like you mean it. And then somehow find the willpower to get out of here so I can get dressed and ask Giles which streets he wants me to patrol tonight."

Quirking his eyebrow at me, he hesitates, and I see him arguing with himself. Lust and affection win, and I'm happy. "Like I mean it, huh?"

"Yeah. Like you used to. Before . . ." I leave the 'before we found out that we couldn't' unsaid. We're having a light, fluffy moment, and after the angst-fest that is every serious conversation we've ever had about our relationship, a little light and fluffy goes a long way.

His smile vanishes, and I wonder if either of us has that kind of innocence left anymore. I don't know that we do. But I really want to try and find it again. His hand cups my cheek, and he bends down to me, and I rise up to him, and his lips press to mine. Firmly, tenderly, with everything he feels for me . . . he kisses me. And it flows through me like a balm. His lust, his love, his respect, and his admiration, along with a thousand other things that just sort of blur together in a rush of 'Angel.'

My lips part, and his tongue slips inside, gently moving between my teeth, seeking mine and dancing intimately with it for what seems like forever, until my knees start to shake and I'm not going to be able to stop soon. He pulls away, and gives me a mischievous smirk. 

"Is that what you were looking for?" he asks me huskily.

Eyes shut, my entire being radiating how WRONG it is that he had to stop . . . "Mmm," I manage to murmur in the affirmative, and I'm swaying a little unsteadily. 

"Okay, then." I can tell he's grinning like a Cheshire cat, even though I can't see him 'cause -- eyes closed. "Tell Giles I said hey," he adds as he backs further away. Self-satisfied smug . . . well, I guess he has every right to be. 

The door shuts behind him, and I crumple into the chair, a puddle of unfulfilled lust and love and need and . . . damn him for being so smug, not because he didn't earn it, but because we can't even -- thought cut off. Time to get dressed. Productive things now. Find demon. Kill demon. New Orleans at night calls for lightweight and breezy.

What with the hot, itchy, sticky...


	11. Angel: Mysterious Ways

Reluctantly leaving Buffy to get ready for patrol, I head back to my room to lie down for a while, desperately in need of a chance to let everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours sink in.

Twenty-four *hours*? It’s hard to believe that’s all that’s passed since this began. My entire reality... at least eight years of it ((the only part that matters))... has been thrown in an existential blender and set on puree. What’s coming out barely resembles the life I’d grown so accustomed to… so comfortable with, in the last six years.

(("The last time you were complacent about your existence, sir... turned out rather badly."))

That’s it, isn’t it? This tilt-a-whirl of repressed dreams and desires that Buffy and I have been set on... this newest and most dangerous test... is just another way for the Powers to remind me how tenuous everything I cherish is... my soul... my life... my relationship with Buffy... and to remind me how careful I need to be with them.

Thankfully, Giles and Wesley are nowhere to be seen this time, so I’m left alone with the mishmashed cacophony of my thoughts and emotions, but I don’t have to endure any long questioning sessions about my dour expression or how Buffy reacted to news of the demon.

Although, despite the continuing tension caused by the Agatoire’s magick... I have to admit that a lot of what I’m feeling is relief. My out-of-control desire for Buffy isn’t just a manifestation of me slipping my admittedly shaky moorings... relief that once the demon is disposed of, and we leave this city, things might get back to their usual twisted status quo. We won’t be forced to walk away from one another yet again.

I told her I couldn’t do that, and I meant it.

The scene in her room was such a bizarre exchange of roles. How many times had she sat where I was, begging me to give us a chance, when I was steadfastly convinced that the only solution was separation? Had her heart broken the way that mine did when I heard her suggest that maybe it was wrong for us to try and continue walking the razor wire of denial that our friendship perches on? Did she have that same weight crushing her chest so fiercely that she couldn’t breathe when I told her I was leaving her, back in another sewer, so long ago?

(("I want my life to be with you..."))

(("I don’t."))

Probably. And realizing that now, realizing just how deeply her hurt ran when I abandoned her, makes my heart shatter all the more for having done it. But back then, we really hadn’t any other choice. I was weak, and she was all I knew... all I’d ever known, it seemed, and to be anywhere near her without touching her, without bathing in her light, was simply impossible. She was so young... there was so much more of the world for her to see (or so I’d hoped), that being chained to an emotionally crippled vampire with absolutely nothing to offer her but loneliness and misery was a burden I wasn’t willing to place on her tiny, already laden shoulders. I couldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t steal any chance she might have at happiness... for as much normalcy as a Slayer could possibly have. I did the only thing I knew how to do… remove my shadow from blocking her light.

But she’s a woman, now... she knows her way on this treacherous path... she knows who she is and what she wants. I’m stronger, too. I know my worth… and her worth to me. She’s no longer the pristine Goddess I once held so high on a pedestal of all the perfect things I thought I wanted to be - she’s simply become ((as if simply isn’t a complete understatement)) the woman that I love more than anything in this dimension or any other. My best friend. The other half of me. Even in the face of this demon, even as close as we came to crossing that uncrossable line this morning, I’m still fully convinced that, now that we know what we’re facing, we can fight it. A demon once told me that together, we are strong… alone, we are dead. The rewards of our friendship greatly outweigh any pain I might feel at being denied having all of her that I crave. I think I’ve learned everything that I could without her. I found my Self... my Destiny. I took the Hero’s Journey, and returned home with my new knowledge, my new strength... returned home... to her, where I belong.

Come Hell or high water, whatever it takes, I won’t walk away from her again. And I won’t let her walk away from me.

I lay down on the soft bed, tuck my hands behind my head, and close my eyes. Her face comes immediately to my mind... the clean scent of her skin... the taste of tears on her lips... the soft terrycloth of her robe under my hands…

(("My stupid heart keeps wanting everything it can't have, and it's just worse here, that's all. Impossible to push down. But it's the same back home, and the way you closed your last letter just proves it, don't you see? It always comes down to the same old issues, the same old frustrations, and . . ."))

She just can’t take it anymore. She didn’t have to say it... it was written all over her beautiful face. The pain, the longing... the constant hunger for lips on lips and skin on skin... it never gets any easier, no matter how much time passes. Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.

Can we do it? Can we *really* keep resisting one another, now that we’ve had another taste of the verboten? I ask myself that, and I take the time to really think about it. We’ve done it so far... we’ve managed to build something strong and beautiful, in spite of all the things we’re denied. 

(("I’ve died over you so many times..."))

But it never gets any easier. The pain never gets any less.

When I was with her a little while ago, I was nothing but certain that digging my heels in and not letting us run away from one another again was the right solution. But now, alone with my fears, my memories and my ghosts, I’m not so sure.

I know that for me, the pain is worth it. I’d rather spend innocent days playing chess with her, and fulfilling my deeper desires in my dreams, than be left with nothing but the dreams again. I can’t go back to those nights...that empty maw of desolation consuming my heart when I woke to find she wasn’t by my side... and might never be again. I hungered to hear her voice... starved for the relief of talking with her, of looking into her eyes and knowing that in all the world, there is at least one person who believes in me... who knows without a doubt that I can achieve what I’ve dedicated my life to achieving. When we were separated, so much of my energy was spent trying not to think about her... trying not to go see her... trying not to write her a letter or call her on the phone. Being relieved of that pain was like having a sliver removed from my heart, and all of its strength, plus the strength of her presence in my life, could be invested in helping those I’d sworn to help.

There’s no doubt that the reward is well worth the cost. But what about her? She says that it killed her too, when we didn’t speak for all those years. She said she felt like part of her died, and no matter what she did, she couldn’t bring it back to life again. But...

(("And then I see you, and everything's perfect for five minutes until it really hits home all over again how much I want of you that I can't ever have. And then one of us has to walk away, and I die every single time."))

But is what we have now any better for her?

(("Can you honestly tell me it won't kill you to see me and know that you can never touch me the way you want to? The way I want you to?"))

Of course it kills me. But it leaves me more alive than never knowing how she is... how she’s feeling. It hurts so much less not to be able to touch her when I can at least see her... hear her laugh... spend time with her. Be there for her to lean on when she needs me. To have her to lean on.

I’d bear anything to hold onto that. But can I ask her to do the same? Maybe she was better off with the pain of separation than she is with the twisting agony of being denied what’s right in front of her. Isn’t it easier to dream of the feast and be denied its exquisite tastes when it exists only in your imagination, than if that same feast is only a few feet away, and you’re tied to your chair, bound forever just barely out of reach? But you can smell it... almost taste it on your tongue...

I don’t know. I just don’t know if I have the answer to that. And even if I imagine that I do... do I have the right to make this decision, like I have so many others, for her?

I can smell the twilight falling over the river, so I get up and move to the window... I pull back the shades and look out at the night coming to life in the streets below.

There’s something heartbreaking about looking at the beauty all around me, and remembering that so much my time with Buffy is spent inside, hiding from the light that sets her skin to glowing a healthy gold. That so many important moments have passed between us spent in caves or sewers or dank, shaded rooms, places of death and darkness that shrivel *my* heart... and they’re *my* places. They shouldn’t be hers. By chaining her to my side, for whatever reason, aren’t I damning her to that same ugly darkness?

(("I can’t *have* a normal life!"))

(("You’re the one freaky thing in my freaky world that still makes sense to me."))

(("You've always been . . . so central to me, Angel. The only calm thing in my whole world. The only person that's ever made =me= calm."))

Her life is as dark as mine is, I suppose. I’m just deluding myself when I think that she can be anything but what she is. I might be consigned to darkness by what I am, but isn’t she, as well? She’s the hunter of the things that stalk the night. As much a predator of moonlight as I and my kind are. That was the central thing I failed to realize all those years ago, when I left her. She was right... she can’t have all the things that I dreamed of for her... that she dreamed of as a child. Her status as Chosen forbids her so many of the same joys that my curse denies me. Being together at least gives us some comfort... some warmth against the cold... some light in the shadows. For two people the world counts on to defend it, that kind of solace is essential.

We’re one another’s foundation, and no damned *demon* is going to get in the way of all the beautiful, rare things that we share. We’ll find a way to make it through this, just as we have everything else we’ve faced. Hell couldn’t separate us. My being soulless couldn’t kill what we have. Being separated by time, distance, and circumstances... moving on and trying to forget. None of those things were able to keep us from one another. One stupid creature certainly isn’t going to succeed where all the powers of the Forces of Evil have failed.

Feeling more certain that ever, I put on my duster, and have to smile to think that she has my leather coat. She’s probably going to wear it out on patrol, despite the fact that it’s 89 degrees outside with close to 100% humidity... like she did all those years ago, when we could almost pretend that she was just a girl, I was just a guy, and the whole world was wide open before us.

(("You’re cold."))

(("I can take it."))

(("No... I mean you *look* cold."))

(("You can have your jacket back."))

(("It looks better on you."))

Maybe some innocent dreams never really die, even if they fade in the harsh light of time.

***

It’s impossible to hunt in this city. I have no idea how it came to be such a Mecca for American vampires. The scents, sights and sounds are overwhelming, and even with 250 years of practice, I have trouble filtering out the majority of it. The "telltale sexual tension" Giles said to look for is everywhere... no less here in the darker part of the Quarter than on the more crowded sidewalks of Bourbon Street.

I’m not sure what’s drawn me back to this old neighborhood. The fuzzy details of Cordelia’s vision seem to indicate that what we’re looking for probably isn’t far from where we’re staying. But somehow my feet just led me here, back into New Orleans’ own Bohemia.

I have to admit that I’m not really hunting. Not for the Agatoire, anyway. I’m wandering aimlessly, as I’m apt to do when my mind is reeling... when I’m in, as Buffy would say, "Deep Brood Mode," but what I like to think of as... searching for understanding. There are so many things inside of me... so many questions, theories, emotions... all heightened by the magick of the demon I’m supposed to be pursuing. Now that I know a little bit about the nature of the magick, I can feel it everywhere... taste it on my tongue... smell it on every one of my unnecessary breaths.

And it’s no surprise all of the enchanted sensations are completely permeated with Buffy. According to the research Giles showed me, the Agatoire’s magick takes the most potent desires of its victim, and cloaks its own spell within them... so the lust, the hot want, feels like my own. It *is* my own. And she has always been my most potent desire. So I can feel the demon’s influence, but it’s the same hunger I’ve always carried for her, only turned up to an almost unbearable volume. I’m filled with her... with the song of her soft voice... the touch of her warm hands... the taste of her lips, her skin, her sex. Her scent fills my nostrils, so that even the carnival myriad of aromas this neighborhood naturally possesses are overwhelmed.

The best way to deal with this spell, I think, is to *deal* with it. Not tamp it down, not ignore it, but let its fire rush through me, burning me clean, purifying my every nerve to an almost raw, oversensitive state. I told her we could admit to what we were feeling. Lean on one another... share this heavy weight. And I believe that. But first, I need to understand it myself. I let my mind fill with visions of her. I let myself admit that what happened in the sewer this morning not only ripped open the scabbed-over wound of being denied her for so long, but healed something in me, too. If only that minute amount, and if only for that perfect, lost moment, when my face was buried between her legs, and she called my name with such flawless, agonizing bliss.

God help me. I almost went too far, because the reward seemed worth it. I remember the Day that I was human... that day we spent experiencing one another over and over again. I remember the dreams I have of her almost every night. After this morning, I’m more convinced than ever that my sensory impressions of her are exactly on target. That I do have perfect replicas of her taste, her scent, the feel and the sound of her in my mind.

But the memories and dreams seem so thin and lifeless next to the real thing. I want her so badly, it hurts. And that itchingburning that’s consumed my skin since the moment I set foot in this city is so acute, I’m dizzy with it. In fact, I’m so awash in the Agatoire’s magick, I don’t immediately notice that I’m being followed. Three quarters of the way down South Canal Street, a shiver runs through me... a cold wash of dread in my blood, and I realize with a start that something is hunting *me*.

Once captured by this new player’s presence, my senses snap back to the reality of my surroundings, skittering away from the stunning magick of my intended target. The street’s native impressions fall on me first: laughter... music... fresh food... I take note of them all and let them become the baseline against which I reach out and gather information about whatever is stalking me.

A tinge of fear. A heartbeat just a tad too fast. Muscles a tiny bit too tense. The sent of bayberry, sage and frankincense.

My first thought - a gypsy. And that thought almost makes me stop in my tracks out of fear. But I force myself to keep on... maybe the Agatoire knows I’m hunting it, and has taken a form that would arouse my natural dislike of all things Romany to warn me away.

I’ve been in far more dangerous situations than this. I keep my baring straight, and let my senses reach out, taking a surreptitious sweep out of my peripheral vision to find the Wrong Thing somewhere close behind me.

I see her almost immediately - a stunning young woman, no doubt of some Caribbean or African descent, telling by the creamy coffee tone of her skin. She’s about Buffy’s age... maybe a year or two younger, dressed casually in a light tank top and slim fitting jeans. She has fine features... enormous sienna eyes, full , cinnamon-tinted lips, and long, curly black hair tied back in a simple ponytail. There’s something about her that’s incredibly familiar... but I lived here close to 40 years ago... a decade or two before she was born, so it must be something else. The aura of her magick is strong, but different, somehow, than that of the Gypsies. Darker, for lack of a better term.

A Voodoun priestess of some power. 

Great, just what I need - yet another magickal race with a grudge against me. Or... maybe she’s a vampire killer in her own right, and hunts me on that level. Maybe she’s a demon groupie, or a practitioner looking for information on immortality, and I’m just a handy random choice as her subject.

I don’t know. I let her follow me for a few blocks, keeping a slow, even pace so that she can catch up with me, and give me a chance to get a handle on her strength, speed, and intentions. Each moment brings her closer, and pulls my muscles tighter. The Agatoire enhances my natural instinct toward self-defense, so the moment she is within arms’ reach, I have her around the neck, and have spun us both into the next alley.

Holding her in a headlock, I hiss in her ear, all the worry and tension of the day clear in my voice. "Who are you? What do you want?"

And almost immediately upon having said it, I feel guilty, because up close, I can’t sense any ill intention on her... no violence... nothing but that low hum of sorcery around her smooth skin. 

She doesn’t struggle. She apparently knows something about what she’s up against, because she goes limp in my arms, a signal of submission. 

"Well, I guess I don’t need to ask if you’re Angel," she says lightly, completely unafraid.

I let her go, and she turns those big, enchanting eyes, and an even more enchanting smile, on me.

I can’t help but snarl at her. "I’ll ask again: Who are you, and what do you want?"

She arches a finely plucked eyebrow at me, and her smile takes on a wry quirk. "I’m Anabella Dubois."

But I notice that she still doesn’t explain why I should know that name... or what she could possibly want. Instead, she politely offers a fine hand. "It’s a real pleasure to meet you. I’ve been hearing about you for as long as I can remember."

My nervous gaze ticks down to the proffered appendage, and I finally manage to pretend *some* civility, and shake it.

"You’re probably wondering why I’m following you," she ventures, her tone still easy... friendly... as if she knows me.

I don’t like this one bit.

"Probably," I snap.

She nods, as if that was the answer she expected. "You know my grandmother, Lady Anais."

With the mention of that long-forgotten name, a flash of memory strikes me. A cold, lonely night on a street not far from here, mere days after I’d arrived in town, hungry, lost, and lonelier than I had ever been before. An ancient Jamaican lady in flowing robes approaching me from the shadowed door of her shop, and asking me in for tea.

"Come in and sit down you, bway," she offered in a thick patois. "I make you some tea, ya to tell me yer woes, den."

I remember staring at her in confusion, and no small amount of shame. "Don’t you know what I am?" I asked her, "Aren’t you afraid?"

Her wrinkled face spread in a smile... one just like her granddaughter’s, but with far fewer teeth. "’Fraid a ya? Why I do such a t’ing? You not gwanta bite me, are ya?"

Funny that so many creatures that turn out to be central to my journey ask me that question.

Every night for the 2 years that I lived in the sewers beneath Canal Street, I would come to her shop, drink her tea in silence, and she would read my cards or tell me stories about the wonders she had seen in her long life. The tea was chamomile and rose hip, I remember... soothing. She was my first human friend since... the Hyperion. But there’s no way that she could still be alive... she was elderly then, and that was four decades ago.

"I knew her," I confirm to Annabella, who patiently waits for me to return from my reverie.

"She sent me to find you."

I look at the girl for a long time, then finally speak the one word that currently occupies my speech center. "Why?"

The young woman shrugs, and gives a little chuckle. "The Gods have spoken. I don’t ask questions of grandmama when she gets that kind of vision. She says ‘fetch me da han’some vampire wit da kind eyes,’ I fetch her the handsome vampire with the kind eyes."

"She can’t still be alive," I deny softly.

"Oh, she’s still alive, and kicking, at 115, by her reckoning. Although, I suspect she was just born old, and never ages at all," she grins, "Anyway, she’s been seeing signs that you would come with the LoostyMahn this year, and you’d need her help. She doesn’t get around very well, and... being resident gopher, I get the fetching job."

Now that I know her connection with my memory, Annabella’s aura puts me immediately at ease. It can’t be a coincidence that Anais knows that I’m here, and why... maybe she can help where all of our other resources have failed. Maybe she can help me get this demon lust under control enough so that Buffy and I can do what we were sent here to do, without teetering constantly on the edge of catastrophe.

"Okay," I finally reply, "Take me to her."

Lady Anais’ shop is exactly the way I remember it... dark and smoky, sweet, warm, and comfortable, inundated with magick. A chicken bone chime above the heavy oak door clicks to announce our entrance, and I follow Annabella slowly down the once familiar hallway, through a bead curtain, into the Voodoun’s "reading room".

She always called this her "hive", and it’s clear why. The atmosphere, like the outer shop, is thick with sweet, spicy incense and that low hum of magick that most of its patrons probably never notice. But the energy, though dark, is comfortingly positive. I remember when I spent time here, feeling as though this was the safest place in the world. A haven where, though my ghosts and pain didn’t vanish, they eased their screaming torment for the short while I remained in the priestess’ presence.

Signs of her vocation are everywhere... surfaces and walls littered with the dried bones of small animals and birds, feathers, beads, and statues of the Yaruban gods on an altar near the back of the room. A large figure of Oshun, the Yaruban Goddess of love and the sea, stands at the center, keeping watch over the dark room. Anais is a devotee and priestess of the All Mother... a fierce believer in the balance of the universe. When she took me under her wing so many years ago, she had said that she didn’t pity me for my pain -- for the gushing wounds she could see in my soul -- but instead admired and almost envied me my distant future, for she could see that it was I, after many trials and tribulations, who would help to bend the fulcrum of Good and Evil to its center once more.

I dismissed her optimism then. I let it soothe me momentarily, the same way I did her charmed tea, but I never took a word to heart. How could I, when then I could barely stand to look inside myself without wanting to meet the next sunrise?

But now I look at her... see her happy smile and the genuinely welcoming light in her rheumy eyes, and I realize with a start...

She really had seen my future.

"Ah! ‘Tis da Angel who come back ta me at last, den!" she calls out in greeting, gesturing me to sit beside her at the round table, over which she has spread a hand-painted tarot deck, which I suspect is older than the both of us put together.

"I’ll put on some tea," Annabella announces from beside me, giving my arm a friendly pat. "You and Grandmama catch up."

The young girl whispers from the room on silent feet, and I force my overwrought, exhausted, hot, itchy, aching carcass into one of the ancient velvet-cushioned chairs. Anais’ grin is like sunshine, and just like all those years ago, her charmed presence slows my racing mind, and almost makes me feel in control of myself again. When she reaches her bony hands across the table and takes mine, her warm parchment touch, for a moment, gives me my first peace in days. A calm little voice whispers inside of me - one I don’t think I’ve ever heard before.

((You will learn something great here, today.))

I give her hands a gentle squeeze... she’s so fragile... I’m afraid I’ll break her. "It’s good to see you, Lady Anais."

She winks at me. "I ‘taught I be seein’ ya long before ‘dis, beautiful soul bway. Look at you. As pretty sweet in da face tonight as 40 year ago."

"The curse of the Nosferatu," I joke flatly.

She snorts "Curse, my black behind. Look a me - more dust dan flesh every day pass now!"

I can’t help but smile. "You’re as stunning today as you were the last time I saw you, Anais."

She rolls her eyes. "Ya a liar, you. But dat okay... Anais take her compliment from da han’some men when she can get it." The old priestess pauses and looks at me closely for a long time, despite the fact that I’m fairly certain that she’s physically blind. She turns my palms over and stares into them before turning a compassionate gaze back to my face. "Ah, ma poor pretty bway. So much pain you dun have these years pass. But... I see dat new strent’ in ya too, though. You grown so much since lass Anais lay eye on you."

I take a deep breath... the truth of her simple words is so heavy. "I have," I confirm softly, "But then... you knew I would."

Her wry grin returns and she wiggles her grizzled brows. "I did at dat, den, din’t I? But you dere, you not hear Anais even one word, you."

Sheepishly, I look away, feeling like a boy who was told not to touch the stove, but did it anyway, and suffered a burn as a result. "No. I couldn’t have imagined any of he things you told me were true, then."

I had repressed so many of the things she told me in those long, empty nights. Anais told me that I would be a great warrior someday. That I would "change the world with my light". I dismissed those, because all I was was a shadow... a ghost. What light did I have to cast on anything, when I could barely find the will to rise from the sewer each night?

But Buffy changed that, didn’t she? Watching her take on her unbidden burden with a grace and fire that no girl her age should ever have to show had inspired me to make something of myself. To become the warrior that this old Voodoun predicted I would be.

That was another thing that Anais had foreseen - that I would experience wonders beyond my imagining... not the least of which was a great love that defied time and space. I dismissed that, because... I had never known love. And being the cursed wretch of a thing that I believed myself to be then, certainly I never would.

I was wrong about that, too. My beloved’s sweet face comes to my mind’s eye... her scent wafts across my nose, and a shivering chill runs over my skin. I wish that she was with me now...

"She is a beauty, her," Anais whispers, as if reading my mind. I realize that I had closed my eyes, and they snap open to train on her in surprise.

"Who?" I ask... though I know full well in my heart who she means.

"Yer lady love. Da girl with da hair a spun sunshine and eyes like autumn grass. I seen her in yer soul way back when. And I seen her right in here de ot’er day."

I swallow stiffly. "You... Buffy was in here?" I can fell my whole body tense, the desperate ache which had been easing for the past few minutes instantly returning to burn and scrape at my skin. "You met her?"

Anais tilts her head girlishly, and her smile is almost beatific. "I done known she comin’, too. Da All-Mama speak at me for it dis weekend pass and tell me ta be lookin’ for ya. De Angel and de sunshine girl. Da Chosen Ones."

I stare at her. It shouldn’t be a surprise that she knew we were coming... she sees things with her blind eyes that no one else can see. But somehow, it still shocks me anyway. And her words... "The Chosen Ones"... as though Buffy and my Destinies really are as entwined as I had imagined in my sweetest dreams.

"Close yer mouth, bway. You’ll be eatin’ the flies, den."

I clamp my mouth shut. Why does everybody warn me that my mouth is attracting flies? I mean... I chew mints...

What an idiotic thought. Here, my mystical friend has just informed me that she’s been called to watch for Buffy and I by the Powers, and I’m worried about my *breath*. Focus, moron.

"Your granddaughter said you could help me with the Agatoire," I force myself to say.

She rolls her eyes yet again. "Silly bway. Dat fool demon just da leas’ a yer worries. Right now, you more worry ‘bout yer heart," she lays a withered hand on my chest, "And yer soul besides."

Stunned again. "Yes," I whisper, my voice wonderstruck.

She sighs sadly and pulls away, shaking her head. "Poor t’ings. You two been forbidden each ot’er for so long, ya don’ even know how to be no more. De city and da LoostyMahn makin’ dat hard to bear ya two."

I clench my jaw tightly at the understatement. "It really has."

Anais eases back on her chair, her gaze piercing straight through to the core of me, and I realize... we’re about to get down to business.

((You’re going to learn something great here, today.))

"I sent da girl dere to fetch ya because... Oshun, she been whisperin’ secrets to me about ya and yer pretty Huntress. ‘Bout why ya don’ really been sent here. She say da two a ya not understan’... and you need ma help, do ya."

An involuntary shiver runs down my spine, and her words echo in my head...

((Why you’ve really been sent here...))

"It’s not..." I choke, my voice failing. "N-not to kill the... demon?"

The old witch laughs, clutching hard at her stomach. "Oh no, you! Gawds no, bway! That fool been livin’ down here since before de river done flowed t’rough da Delta. It do nobody harm... just set da good folk free a der’ fetters every now and again. Nuttin’ wrong wit’ some down home lust, ya know. LoostyMahn like bats, ‘e is. Ya might not to be likin’ ‘em much, but dey eat the skeetahs and de ot’er creepy crawly make it hard to walk da streets. Heaven no, you not here ta kill da demon, you."

"Then... why?" I hear myself whisper. I suddenly feel like I’m watching the scene from the far end of a long, dark tunnel. The tunnel I’ve been walking through since the night I regained my soul, and my Sire cast me into the streets to suffer alone.

((something great... ))

She leans slowly toward me, her weathered face somber. "Mama don’ sent da bot’ a ya here for her own purposes. She knows dat what dem gypsies don’ to you not de way it should be. You and yer pretty Huntress made ta be toget’er, not to always be wastin’ yer energy battlin’ one anot’er. Ya should never have to be fightin’ love when it love’s cause you defend. You remember, chile... when I don’ tol’ you way back and when... when I say you got a wound in yer soul, and dat t’ings dere not put toget’er right?"

My gaze flashes to the table before us. The cards speak to me... I remember their symbolism so well, from Drusilla’s more lucid moments. The eight of wands, reversed... our immediate past: internal disputes... too much, too fast. The future, the Ace of Cups: beauty and enlightenment. The Queen of Swords... Buffy. The Page of Wands... myself. The final card, Four of Swords: a need for wise decisions and careful action.

I look up at Anais once more, and I can almost feel the plea in my eyes. ((something greatsomethinggreatsomethinggreat))

I nod slowly. I imagined, forty years ago, that the wound she spoke of was my soul’s torment... but now... the wound in my soul. The Curse. And thinking that, a million things rush in a torrent through my mind... the wound in my soul... Buffy and I brought together to a city of passion and lust, under the influence of a creature that makes all of the things we usually bear unbearable... irresistible... a sun whose gravity forces our planets ever closer to its heat...

((made to be together, not always wasting your energy fighting each other...))

"Da gods, dey make mistakes too, ya know. Dey sometimes make not all in dis worl’ as dey should to be. They don’ see all... until sometimes it too late. But She see now. She see da two a you not good at lettin’ da Fates wash ya along de way... She know you’d two love, but never did she see how you’d love... how completely, how fiercely."

As I watch in shock, her eyes clear, suddenly becoming the color of polished gold, and aglow with something I’ve never been witness to before. Her posture straightens, her expression becomes angelic... her aura heavenly, and her speech strong and clear.

"We never imagined, in our minds which created the All, that your One in Two would be so strong. We never knew that you would love so utterly. We had thought you would fight together... that you would be dedicated to one another... but not that you would be so bound to one another that your very existence would depend on it. We see, now. We see what you are... what you two have become... what you create together. We have tried so hard to repair the mistakes we made... to show you your healing wounds... to let you find your way back to one another. But you are, like most humans, stubborn. Unable to see beyond the framework of your experience, and so you tore yourselves away from one another, time and again."

The room is suddenly bathed in light... warmth like true sunshine... I close my eyes and let it wash over me... heat me and sooth me, as the possession of my friend goes on.

"You have always done things in your own way... in your own time. And we know that sooner or later, you would have realized what we granted you, when we returned you to this world. But things are coming, Warrior. A Great Darkness prepares to spread across your land, and if it is not defeated... the Light will die forever, and the balance of the universe will be destroyed. Nothing will survive. We can wait no longer for you to learn the truth. We need you. We need you to stand together, in the full power of what you share, what you have become. Together, you are strong..."

((How can we be together if the cost is your life? Or the lives of others? It’s not enough time! I felt your heart beat. Well, I guess that’s everything. That’s it.))

"My soul..." I hear myself squeak helplessly, and open my eyes.

Anais is Anais again, and the warm light is gone. But I can still feel its healing fingers on my skin. I can almost sense what it was telling me, deep in the core of my being.

"She don’ brought da two a you toget'er down here to let da LoostyMahn bind you. To let you ‘member what you two got between you... passion and fire dat will be savin’ da world, someday. You not here to kill dat demon. You here to let it devour you whole."

"The Curse..." some torn part of me... that place where all my aching for Buffy lives, objects. "We can’t be together like that... it’s too hard."

My old friend sighs at me as though I’m the simple, stubborn child she no doubt sees me to be right now, and reaches out to capture my face between her frail hands, looking me straight in the eye. "Chile, you listen to me. And hear me good now. You *need* her. She *need* you. Neit’er a you is right wit’out de ot’er. Neit’er is as strong as could be. As Dey *need* you be. You been to Hell, bway. You suffer da torments beyond people wors’ night terrors. Yer soul not meant to suffer dat - it never don’ nobody no harm. Da Rom were wrong to punish yer essence wit’ da demon. But you see... now you seen what comin’. You know what da Last War bring on da world if ya two don’ win. Dat’s why She bring you back... why she bring you back fixed and whole... when da Huntress call ya back wit’ da tears of her heart, Oshun know at last what you do. Dat wound I saw on yer soul den... it gone now. Yer all you again, and Mama Oshun want it dat way. You need yer girl to walk strong. She need you the same. Now all you gotta do is stop being such a mule’s hind end, and *take* her."

The borrowed blood in my veins roars in my ears... confusion like a cold tide washes over me. "I don't understand. How..."

Anais shakes her head at me. "I dunno how. She don' explain herself, you know. She jes tell me the essential facts. I tell dem to you. What you do from there ain't no concern of mine."

And then, finally, I force myself to say the truth aloud. "There's no... happiness clause."

Her toothless smile is brighter than the sun. "How good a warrior be dat have no happiness to fight for?"

I’m utterly frozen in my seat. I hear the words... I feel the truth... but suddenly, it’s as if my entire reality had been balanced on that one simple fact of my being - I’m eternally denied true happiness, real peace - that to be without it is unthinkable. I’ve defined everything I know with that in mind. So much of my consciousness is trained to watch for Too Happy, and to remind me of why I am what I am... why I do what I do, to bring me back to the low-grade misery that is the best I can ask for.

I always thought that when I was truly free from this Curse, that I would rejoice. But now that it seems I can have all the things I’ve so long dreamed of... that I don’t have to push Buffy away, or resist what I feel for her... all I feel is panic. Fear. Misapprehension. 

Anais gives me a look of soft concern, and calls Annabella to fetch the spiced rum. She pours us each a glass and waits patiently for the questions she must know are rushing around in my head. The only thing I can think to do is take the tumbler in my hand and gulp the liquid down, letting its liquorsweet heat cut through the haze around my consciousness, and finally find my voice.

"Why now? Why didn't they tell us when I came back from Hell? Buffy could have been spared so much pain..."

I never had to leave her.

((I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me!))

I never had to resist the siren song of her skin.

((Do you think they make a patch for this?))

I could have come back and we both could have had the simple, healing blessing of skin on skin. The denial of that comfort... the haven of her arms... caused more pain than anything the denizens of the demon dimension where I was condemned dreamed up to torment me.

Anais looks at me sympathetically. "Poor bway. The agony's been eatin' at ya fer so long, now. But look what you become... what yer ladylove become. Tempered and strong, like steel... utterly devoted to da ot’er, and knowing what dat worth. Able to face anyt'ing the Dark Ones put in your path. Would ya be half so strong... love da girl half so much, had you not survived all ya done?"

She’s right. The past six years have been a time of profound growth for both of us. Maybe our burdens would have been lighter if we had been together all along, but… I might never have learned all that I have if I had always been able to lean on Buffy. I might never have found the true depths of my own strength, found my own place in the world, if I had been allowed to live in happiness with the woman I love more than anything. After all… I wouldn’t have had half as much to fight for, then. I have to admit… so much of my impetus for wanting to earn my redemption was wanting to be worthy of the love she had shown me.

Most of all, I don’t think I would have the soul-deep appreciation of what Buffy really means to me, if we hadn’t been forced to live apart. I think… I hope… that the same is true for her.

Even as I sit here, rolling all of this earth-shattering truth around in my head, I know that this still hasn’t really hit me yet. It probably won’t until I tell Buffy. Until I can see her response in her eyes.

Oh, God, Buffy… 

The burning under my skin that’s been tormenting me since my arrival suddenly has a whole new meaning - it’s no longer a siren song, compelling me to certain doom… but a sweet melody, calling me home at last, instead.

But there’s still so much fear - some of it rational, some not. Will she want me when the Agatoire’s magick has faded? Does she still, deep down, dream of a normal life that I can never give her?

((Shanshu. It means to live until you die. That you’ll become… human.)) What if she can’t forgive all the pain I’ve brought her in the past? What if I’m too crippled by dread to even *feel* happiness anymore?

What if this is just another cruel cosmic joke?

"It can’t be that simple," I whisper. The effort of speech is just too much right now. "Just like that, they want us together? After all this time? After everything we’ve been through, they just throw us in this emotional meat grinder and expect us to give in without knowing it’s safe?" I lean toward Anais, and I can feel the desperation that overtakes my voice. "This doesn’t make any *sense*!"

Anais shrugs nonchalantly and downs her rum in a single gulp. "I done tol' you, chile... I can't ‘splain Her way. Maybe she t’ought de demon's pull finally make you see what you been so blind to." She looks deeply into my eyes, and I can almost feel her gaze on my skin. "Think back, chile... about times pass. How many times you looked into yer lover's eyes... held her hand or see her smile... and felt peace and joy in your heart just to have her near? Can you count dem?"

No… I can’t. In a flash, I realize… she’s right once again. I’ve known a million moments of perfect happiness with Buffy over the years since I came back from Hell. Her laughter... her fierce hugs... the little gifts of herself she always gives without even realizing it. Even just watching her with Dawn sometimes makes me so happy, I think my heart might break from it. And though my mind had trained itself to watch for and fear that fine line that tethers my soul, there has always been the hope... that someday, I would be human, and we could share the forbidden joys of life together.

Anais seems to read my thoughts. She reaches across the table and takes both my hands in hers once more as she tells me softly, "You will be a man someday, ma pretty Angel. I seen it in yer soul. A great man who will do great t'ings. But ‘til ya get to dat day, you need your joy... your heart’s love, for dat is from where your fire come. That is why you fight on, even when da road is dark and da tomorrows seem bleak. Go to her, Angel. Tell her dat ya love her. Dat ya want her. Dat you hers and she, yours. Don't let nothin' stand in your way, now. 'Specially not yer t'ick head!"

I feel her words rushing through me, riding waves of the demon’s magickal lust... all stained with fear and shock, and...

Absolute, unadulterated joy.

It’s the last that finally drives home the truth that Anais is telling me. I’m so happy, I can barely stand it. So desperately hungry for Buffy, my skin is blazing, and I’m already half-aroused at the realization that it’s *okay*. I *can* want her. And better yet... I can *have* her. We can have each other. We can be together, finally, forever.

I feel a smile bubble up from somewhere deep inside the maelstrom of my emotions, and I’m suddenly overcome with sensation - with love and hope and... okay, lust. So many things that I had kept under such strict control for so many years, I can barely remember what it feels like to have them course freely through my blood anymore.

Then, another thought. I’ve wasted so much time... too much time. I have to find Buffy. Now.

Before I even realize that I’ve moved, I’ve jumped out of my chair, and clutch the old Voodoun in a desperate embrace, laughing and crying all at once, peppering her soft, powdery skin with grateful kisses. "Thank you, Anais. Thank you so much!"

She pushes me off, wrinkling up her nose in what is probably supposed to be distaste, but ends up being an affectionate sort of smirk. "Now, don’t ya go wastin’ yer kisses on some old lady... der a beauty out on dos’ streets been waitin’ a long time for you!"

I pull away... tears spilling down my cheeks, and I give her hands a final squeeze. "There’ll never be a way I can thank you enough," I repeat, "You can’t know what you’ve given me. What you’ve given us..."

She smiles and waves me off. "Ya jus’ bring yer huntress here and let me see da two a ya toget’er. I wanna see dis love Oshun t’ink save da world. We call us two even, den, ‘kay?"

I nod at her and spin on my heel, running toward the door. "I promise I will," I call over my shoulder, "But not tonight!"

Just before I reach the street, I hear her laugh ring behind me. "Oh no, you! Tonight you got lovin’ to do!"

Yeah. Tonight, I have six years of longing, a belly full of demon magick to ease...

And old, battered, but never-forgotten promises to keep.

I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast in my life. It’s only 10 or 15 blocks to Bourbon Street, where Buffy is patrolling, but... it feels like half the circumference of the world separates us. I sprint at top speed, uncaring that I might draw attention to myself. After all, this city is naturally blasé about the undead.

Finally, I reach the top of the Quarter, and... I can instantly feel her. I can smell her on the humid night breeze... the musk of her sweat combined with that subtle tang of arousal that’s been around her since breakfast. I pick up the pace... I fully intend to sweep her off her feet, carry her back to the hotel, and make love to her until the Agatoire EXPLODES from it. I have no doubt that Buffy and I have worked up enough unrelieved sexual tension to make it unnecessary for the thing to feed for at LEAST a century. As I get closer, the urges get stronger... the visuals of what I’m going to do to her get clearer. I won’t give her a moment to question, or worry, or object. There’s plenty of forever for talking *after*.

And there she is. God... is it really possible that she’s more breathtaking than she was a few hours ago? That the aura of frustration all around her is like a beacon to me... like she’s a bitch in heat, and I’m...

Okay, so apparently my metaphors are starting to suffer right along with the rest of me. But just think about what I’m *feeling* right now!

She sits on a bench, waving her arms and ranting to a very put-out looking Willow and Tara, who are so sweetly, desperately *trying* to care about what Buffy’s saying...

But the scent of desire on them is almost as strong as on her.

I smile to myself as I duck behind a lightpost in the shadows near where she’s sitting. I’ll wait for a moment’s lull in the conversation, and then sweep her away to where all of our dreams can start to come true.

Beginning with relieving this damn *itch* that’s been driving us both crazy over the past couple of days. The itch that is no doubt responsible for the abject misery written all over her beautiful face. I can’t wait to get her in my arms... to kiss that little frown line away... to do my level best to assure that she has nothing but smiles for the rest of her life.

Then I hear what she’s saying.

" . . . and all that considered, the last three years have meant *nothing*."

"Buffy," Willow objects.

"Don't 'Buffy' me, Will. Angel and I have spent all this time building up this fantasy friendship and where does it get us? Screwed. Ten minutes alone together in a sewer and all that hard work is shot to hell. We had this big, long conversation earlier, and I felt a little better, but when I think about it . . . it's just such a waste."

The street music is loud... the sounds of the New Orleans night make it difficult to hear everything they’re saying. Dread automatically clutches my heart, and my rational mind warns me not to forget context... don’t take any of this at face value, because we’ve had a very stressful 24 hours, and she can’t possibly mean what just came out of her mouth...

Unfortunately, the blood roaring in my ears and the magick possessing my every overwrought nerve ending drowns out any weak attempt at rationality.

Soft-spoken Tara adds her own objection, but I can’t hear it. All I hear is the piercing of the bubble I had been floating in on the way back from Lady Anais’. It creaks and moans before it completely gives way with a shriek that rattles my bones.

"Never mind," Buffy mumbles. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters." 

I remember saying those very same words once upon a time... when I was plunging into a black pit of despair... when it seemed like all my hope was gone, and all I’d wanted was for the pain to finally end. Is she really in that much pain? Why didn’t she *tell* me?

((She did, you fool...))

(("I’ve died over you so many times..."))

(("I’ve compromised everything I've ever had in my life..."))

But... she had seemed so sure... she wanted to try. That’s what she said...

Wasn’t it?

"You don't mean that," Willow says gently.

You can’t mean that... Buffy... please...

"I wish I'd never met him. I wish none of it had ever happened. I wish I'd never seen his stupid face, I wish I'd never fallen in love with him."

At that, my rational mind finally whimpers and dies. Those aren’t minced words... there’s no doubt of what she’s saying, there’s no uncertainty in her voice.

Just pain. Pain that, yet again, I caused her.

I turn and duck into the nearest alley, rushing back toward the hotel before I break down. The only sound I hear now is the grievous wailing of dreams dying in my heart. Dreams so recently reborn...

Well... I wanted to know the truth of how she felt...

Now I guess I have it.


	12. Buffy: Grief Counseling

This is just never going to work.

I've been patrolling ((wandering around aimlessly)) Bourbon Street, in search of this Aggravator thing. Everything Angel and I talked about is racing through my mind and I can barely pick one thought out from another. I'd been *so* sure when he was there, in my arms, and now that I'm alone again ((always alone yet never alone because he's always with me but not *with* me)) all the doubts he'd smothered were set on blazing fire again.

Images from earlier, in that damn sewer, keep playing across my consciousness like some late-night ShowTime soft-core porn flick. Except there's really nothing 'soft-core' about Angel and I, and calling what exists between us 'porn' makes me sick to my stomach. It's dangerous, and it's *wrong*, but it's definitely not porn. It's sacred.

And not allowed. And if I could just stop thinking about it, just for *one* whole minute, maybe I could feel a little tiny bit of the hope I need to.

Help me. Someone. Anyone. Powers That Be. Lucifer. I don't care at this point. I'm seventeen all over again, desperately in love, and hopelessly doomed. My sacred duty says I need to patrol, when all I really want to do is curl up in the room that still holds Angel's scent from his earlier visit and sob for a solid hour because I think I'm dying all over again.

Ahead I notice two familiar figures making out on a bench. A vindictive voice inside of me demands I put an end to their obvious sexual satisfaction. I'm blaming that voice on the demon even as I cross the street and plop down heavily next to them.

It takes her a moment, but Willow finally notices the person who sat down next to her isn't a stranger. Has she no shame? Would she and Tara have continued to maul each other in front of someone they didn't know? Haven't they ever heard of public decency?

"Hello, Buffy," Tara greets me sweetly.

"Hi, Buffy," Willow adds, looking a little put out. "Did you need something?"

Translation: Unless you need a witch, could you go away so we can grope in peace?

You know, *I'd* like to be allowed to grope in peace. I'd like to grab my honey, stake out the nearest available flat surface, and go at it. But do I get to? That's a big fat no from the cosmos. My so-called-friends could take into account my supreme unhappiness, to say nothing of my hormonal imbalance, and cut me a little freakin' slack, *especially* considering the fact that, when I *do* go away, they can boff each other silly.

"My life sucks," I finally say in greeting.

"C-can we do anything?" Tara asks. I really do love Tara. She's apparently more sympathetic than Willow.

Though, in my best girlfriend's defense, she did already witness the Buffy and Angel Show: Act One. This hard-core Angel-moping is still a brand new activity for Tara.

"You wouldn't happen to have a spell that would remove the happiness clause in Angel's curse, would you?" I mumble.

"Sorry," Willow denies, and she does sound sorry. "Alcoholic refreshment?" She pulls a flask out of her purse and offers it to me.

When the Hell did Willow get a flask? Never mind. You ask too many questions, and people just start answering them.

"There isn't enough alcohol in the state to help me," I mutter forlornly.

"What's wrong?" Tara asks. Willow gives her a 'oh, now you've done it' look, and I almost feel sorry for what it is that I'm about to do.

"What's wrong?" I echo, and ooo, this is going to be bitchy. "Gee, I don't know what could possibly be wrong. Could it be every power in the universe declaring simultaneously that I can't make love to the only man I've ever truly loved? No! I know, it's the fact that the aforementioned man and I tried -- and mostly succeeded -- to be friends for the past three years, and in *one* afternoon, every single bit of it got shot to Hell and blown away by a cruel north wind."

The inner-poet in me frowns at the overdone metaphor, but I feel like spouting over-the-top phrases bemoaning the loss of love. Without Angel, there is no passion in my life, and what I've always believed is true -- without passion, there can be no true love. The fire informs the heart, the heart feeds the soul, and I've been hungry for years.

Bitterly, I continue:

"I've lost my lover, my best friend, *and* my favorite person to do battle with. Evil, he's the best enemy I've ever had, and now we don't even get that! Not that I want him to be evil," I hasten to add. "Because I don't. Evil Angel *bad*. But . . .at least if he were evil, he might *kill* me and maybe then I'd have a shot at not *feeling* like this anymore.

"Then I realize I've actually sunk that far, that I'd rather be *dead* than missing him, and aching for him a minute longer . . . what does that *say* about me? About *us*? It spits in the face of the friendship we've worked so hard on, it invalidates it, and all that considered, the last three years have meant *nothing*."

"Buffy," Willow objects, but I continue blindly on.

"Don't 'Buffy' me, Will. Angel and I have spent all this time building up this fantasy friendship and where does it get us? Screwed. Ten minutes alone together in a sewer and all that hard work is shot to hell. We had this big, long conversation earlier, and I felt a little better, but when I think about it . . . it's just such a waste."

"Wh-wh-what do you mean, waste?" Tara asks, and man does she have more guts than most people give her credit for. I know *I* wouldn't want to talk to me anymore if I weren't stuck with me.

"Never mind," I mumble. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters." My heart is broken again, and none of it matters. It never did get to matter, though, because I had to 'Go out and slay this, Buffy' 'Pay attention, I'm becoming a witch, Buffy!' 'Look, Buff, a Twinkie that's shaped like the Eiffel Tower!'

"You don't mean that," Willow says gently.

"Maybe I do," I snap. "Maybe I wish I'd never met him in the first place. Some other girl could have inspired him to turn his life around, and maybe she wouldn't have been selfish enough to sacrifice his soul to her hormones." I'm shaking with how much this hurts me. I can see her in my mind, that other girl; tall and model-pretty with dark hair and eyes. Someone who could give him comfort without all the fear and the shit that mucks up our lives.

"That's it," I say decidedly. "I wish I'd never met him. I wish none of it had ever happened. I wish I'd never seen his stupid face, I wish I'd never fallen in love with him."

My entire face crumples, and I cover my horrible mouth with my hand. "I didn't mean it!" I say quickly, looking around, half-expecting some kind of wish-demon like Anya used to be to pop out of the bushes and shout "Done!"

"We know," Willow says soothingly. "Buffy, you're just . . ."

"Insane!" I practically screech. "Because I don't wish I'd never met him, and I *love* his stupid face, it's the best face." Hopelessness bubbles up inside of me until I can't breathe. "And it *is* worth it. Whatever we've been through . . . Will, we're good together, aren't we? I mean, if you take all the soul-danger and the 'natural enemies' thing away . . . we're *good* together. Right?"

Willow nods, a tiny smile on her face. "Yeah. You are. That's why it was always so sad to look at you, before, when you were all doomed." My dearest, bestest friend (because bestest friends are different from best friends) seems to be trying to tell me something I might not want to hear, and I sigh in resignation.

"What?" I ask warily.

"Buffy, you guys haven't seemed 'doomed' in years," Willow says carefully.

"I've never seen you doomed," Tara adds helpfully. "When Willow and Xander told me all the stories . . . I expected you guys to be tragic or something. Then I saw you together and . . ." She blushes, and I do love this girl who is someone that finally loves Willow the way she deserves.

"And?" I prompt, when she seems a little too nervous to speak.

"You're beautiful together," Tara says simply, and I notice she isn't stuttering and I always wonder why, what comes over her that keeps the stutter away. "You come alive together and draw from each other, strength, compassion, love . . . from a strictly magical point of view, it's an amazing sight to witness, all that power united."

Willow bobs her head in agreement, and I sit back against the bench, stunned. We *haven't* been doomed, have we? It's been hard, and all that pain I confessed to him earlier (and some of it I didn't) is definitely there, but . . . it *doesn't* drag us down like it once did. I remember that first conversation we had, so long ago (("Because it *is* worth it to me, whatever the cost, just to have you in my life")) the decision we came to that I've somehow managed to forget . . .

"No, I didn't mean it at all." Tears flow freely down my face, and finally, they're not self-pitying tears, or anguished tears. I love him. I love him better than anyone else ever could, and no matter how hard it is, no matter how much of a toll it takes on my hormones, he needs me in his life, just like I need him. And we're fucking *good* together, damn it.

Then suddenly, like a slap to the face, I need to see him. Maybe hold him, just enough to prove that I still can without things getting out of control. I need my arms around him, and his around me. We can talk about the Aggravator, or about how we feel, our friendship, about *anything* and just . . . be good together for awhile.

"Guys," I begin, "I've got to--"

"Tell Angel 'hi' for me," Willow says smoothly, her arm already back around Tara's shoulders.

"Bye," I call, sprinting down the street.

I've got a vampire I desperately need to hug.


	13. Angel: How Angel Got His Groove Back

Six months ago, Cordelia talked me into investing $29.95 in a set of "Special Space Age Polymer" coated ice substitute blocks, for "emergency plasma travel". In theory, they’re supposed to stay cold for days in unbearable heat, and when in an insulated cooler, remain solid for at least a good chunk of forever. So when my family and I hurriedly packed our things for what would turn out to be a 17 day total journey away from a reliable butcher or refrigerator, I trustingly put my Cool-Eze (as per the very specific instructions on the package) in my freezer for 24 hours, then tucked them in my hospital cooler and went on my way.

They were fine during our road trip to Hell - seven long, agonizing days. When we arrived here, my blood was fresh and cold. 

Now, after less than two days in this godforsaken boiling cesspool of a city, I have a cooler full of silicone-poisoned water and four empty "Special Space Age Polymer" bags protecting my rapidly spoiling food supply, and I’m out $29.95 plus shipping and handling.

I will never buy anything from an infomercial ever again. Nor will I take shopping advice from Cordelia… unless it involves clothing.

I grab the still half-full bucket from the bathroom sink and head down the hall to the ice machine, cursing my habit of being a sucker to pretty much anything Cordelia asks of me as I stomp along. I really resent having wasted that thirty dollars… I’m really upset that I might lose the gallon or so of blood I brought along… but most of all, I resent having to go anywhere *near* that end of the hallway. HER room is not twenty feet away, and the *last* thing I need right this particular moment is to run into HER.

But I’ll be damned if I spend the rest of the night hunting for a 24-hour butcher willing to sell pig’s blood to weird, half-crazed, tired, irritated, heartbroken shadowy guys off the street with no questions asked, either. New Orleans might be a vampire city, but I’d bet my soul there aren't a whole lot of them that live on animal blood. I suppose I could go a few days without feeding, but… considering the emotional shape I’m in right now… that’s not the best idea. A hungry vampire is a nasty, grouchy, barely tethered vampire.

Especially while under the influence of a particularly nasty lust demon, and in the immediate proximity of the one human being on the planet around whom I have absolutely no control.

(("You need her. She need you." "Da Chosen Ones…"))

(("I wish I’d never seen his stupid face!"))

Irony. I’m so awash in goddamn irony, I could *choke* on it. Oh, how Spike would laugh if he knew. Too bad he’s out somewhere "patrolling" (i.e. hiding from me) \- I could use a scrawny ass to kick right about now.

Oh, good. Here comes Buffy, looking cheerful and relaxed after unloading her unholy Angel burden on Willow. Honestly, I can’t remember ever being this angry with her… this hurt. Not even that night in the police station, after Faith.

(("You know what’s different about it? I *know* him. I *trust* him."))

This is a far deeper wound, because this time, she wasn’t lashing out at me from her own pain because she felt that I betrayed her. She was having an honest, private, intimate conversation with her best friend.

(("I’m your best friend?"))

I don’t get it. I just don’t understand how she could play soft and wounded a few hours ago, if all along she was really regretting that we’d ever crossed paths to begin with. Not that I disagree with the sentiment sometimes…

((Just… stay away from me right now, Buffy. Don’t confront me. Don’t pretend to care when you don’t. Don’t put on some condescending "friend" show just because you don’t want to hurt my feelings. Don’t…))

"Hi!" she chirps, trotting up beside me as if she didn’t just finish saying that our entire relationship was one huge mistake. "I’ve been looking for you. Ooh, ice!"

She nabs a half-melted cube from the bucket and pops it into her mouth and I will NOT think about all the interesting things that I could do to her warm body with ice cubes!

I do my level best to ignore her and walk a little faster. I then endeavor to ignore the hurt look on her face at being ignored. Never, in all the time we’ve known one another, have I ever pretended that she wasn’t there. In fact, most of the time, I was desperately wishing that she could be *closer*, and I’m sure that showed.

But she won’t be put off. She doubles her pace to catch up with me, and why the Hell didn’t we get a room with a *refrigerator* in it?

"Hey, what put you in such a foul mood? Frankenstein figure out you’re a card- carrying member of the Undead Club?" she jokes.

Jokes. Why should she bother joking with me? Why should she care about lightening my mood? She should just take my silence as a sign and get away as far away from me as fast as she can, back to the life she *really* wants - the one without me in it.

I shouldn’t be this angry. Nothing she said was anything I hadn’t thought a million times about myself. But from her? I never thought…

Why the games? Why the put-on since we’ve been here, that she still loved and wanted me as badly as I did her? The demon, no doubt. Repressed sexual desire doesn’t require love… or even like.

I grumble in response. I’m not sure what I’m saying. Just trying to send out the clearest ‘leave me the Hell alone’ signals that I possibly can without actually looking at her…yelling at her the way I want to. We finally reach the ice machine, and I throw open the door with a loud bang that makes her jump.

I refuse to look at her. And I certainly don’t have a damn thing to *say* to her right now that she would have *any* interest in hearing.

I can feel the sudden confusion washing off of her in waves, and I crush the part of my heart that’s weeping and wailing over the injustice of finally being able to have her, only to find out that she doesn’t want me.

It figures. Fucking irony. I’ve had enough of it.

"And still more ice," she comments uncomfortably. "Can I help?" The desperation growing in her tone rips through me, and again, may I say that I just don’t get it? "Angel, if you’ve somehow lost the ability to speak, just nod your head once. Or… if you somehow can’t see me… well, I guess if you can’t *see* me, you can’t really…" She gives up with a defeated sigh. "Angel?"

My entire body goes rigid at the sound of her saying my name like that. Like she always has… as a tiny question, soft and wondering… a little hurt. I take a long time to stand up straight, my back to her, steeling myself against what she’s projecting at me. Then, I slowly turn around, and though facing her once more, I still can’t bring myself to look directly at her.

"I’d like to be alone right now," I choke out as civilly as I can manage, and hope that for once in her life, she’ll *listen* to me. This is her chance to run \- she should take it. I push past her, ignoring the screaming objections of my body, heart, and soul, and head back toward my room, what seems like a million miles away.

I can feel her hurt, pouty stare on my back. The gaze pierces right through my flesh, echoing deep inside my already aching bones. Then she huffs softly,

"Yeah, like THAT’S gonna work," and then I hear her footsteps hurrying behind me, Slayer-fast, and before I can increase my own speed accordingly, her ((tiny…warm…usually so gentle…healing… now rough… bruising…)) hand is on my arm. She yanks me around to face her, sending the ice spilling all over the intricate pattern of the hall carpet, and I have a flash of the little paisleys making me want to vomit last night. "Far be it for me to quote *Cordelia*, but what is your DAMAGE?"

I glower at the ice melting on the carpet. ((My "damage"? Little girl, my damage is *far* beyond the capacity of words to describe… or your ability to understand. My *damage* springs from the simple fact that I’m *dead*. The one thing that ever made me feel even the smallest bit alive is a *lie*, and that only serves to remind me what I’ve always known, deep down - I’m a monster. Little more than a walking corpse, and right now, it’s hard to remember why I let myself go on in the first place.))

But I bite my tongue over those thoughts, swoop down to reclaim the now-empty ice bucket, and march back toward the machine like the good little drone for the Powers that I am.

They want us to be together now, my *ass*. It’s exactly as I suspected - another hilarious Joke On Angel. Better than fire and brimstone for eternal torture any day. And I’m sure I’m *so* amusing when I’m in agony.

This time, Buffy doesn’t follow me. She stands there, wearing a look I can only describe as ‘bitchy’, watching me go, scoop out my ice, and return as I go back to my original plan - ignoring her. It was going so well, earlier, so I rage right past her without…

Her hand shoots out, knocking the ice to the floor yet *again*. I freeze in my tracks, rage exploding in my blood at her *audacity* to be so immature, when it’s *she* who’s a liar! All the pain, the want, that goddamn ITCH that only serves to remind me of the ugly poetic justice I’m currently standing in the middle of becomes so overwhelming, it obliterates everything else in my consciousness. I feel myself growling. Feel my violent gaze rise to meet hers, as if my body is now completely out of my control.

She smirks at me. "I can do this all night, how about you, sweetheart?" she snarks, unafraid.

I clench my teeth, struggling to subdue my basest instincts toward violence in a way I haven’t in *years*.

"Don’t push me, Buffy," I hiss, "You *really* won’t like the result."

Fuck the ice. I’ll call that little twit Francois or something. I turn on my heel and practically sprint in the opposite direction, before I really *do* lose control and end up saying or doing something I regret. I know that the depth of my anger is irrational… no doubt in part, at least, to the continued pressure of resisting the Agatoire’s magick. 

But no small part of it is mine, too. Her words shattered my already-wounded heart, and unlike the self-hating beast I was a few years ago, I actually have some *value* in my mind, now… and I don’t like finding out that the entire reason I endeavored to change to begin with is all *bullshit*.

Like a really determined terrier snapping at the heels of a raging pit bull, she *follows me*!

"Right. ‘Cause what are you gonna do, Angel? Huh? You gonna *throw down* with me? What the Hell is going on with you? Why won’t you just TALK TO ME? I thought that was the one thing we could *always* do with each other!"

"Leave me alone," I snarl, "I don’t have anything to say to you."

We finally reach my room, and I kick in the door, smashing the flimsy wood into the wall. Buffy keeps right on coming, kicking what’s left of it inward, leaving the thing hanging pathetically on its hinges. She rages in behind me, grabbing my arm and wrenching me around to face her again.

And God help me, as incensed as I am, that violent, insistent gesture… the fire in her eyes and the indignant rage in her voice… turn me on even more.

"Okay, FINE! I’ve got another question for you, then. WHAT BUG CRAWLED UP YOUR ASS!?"

There is far less human being in me now than demon. Half of me wants to rip her head off. The other half wants to rip her clothes off and throw her down right here and force her to tell me it wasn’t true. Her angry dismissal of me and everything we’ve been through together was a lie, said in anger or frustration or because of the demon. She *couldn’t* mean it. Her body would tell me the truth, even if her mouth needed to lie.

Of course, I follow neither compulsion. Instead, I get directly in her face… and shout. "Are you DEAF?!" I screech at her, taking her none to gently by the arm and dragging her to what’s left of my hotel room door. "I said Leave. Me. ALONE!"

I never actually get her out into the hall. As angry as I might be right now, she is still the Slayer -- the Greatest Slayer in history, as a matter of fact. Which is usually a point of great, heart-swelling pride for me, but right now, all it means is that I’m forced to keep looking at her… adoring her… *starving* for her, instead of being alone and miserable, which is how I want to be… how I’m *meant* to be.

She dislodges my grip easily, places both her tiny hands on my chest, and shoves me bodily back into the room. I’m suddenly taken with visions of fierce Celtic warrior women and goddesses of destruction as she stalks toward me, and…

God, I love her so much.

"RIGHT! Because that’s your solution to EVERYTHING, isn’t it? Whenever you’ve got *issues*, you push me away! And if I won’t leave you alone, *you* leave *me*! What could have happened in the last four hours that was so horrible that you can’t just…" 

She trails off. In a heartbeat, the avenging angel is gone, and a hurt little girl takes her place, trembling in terror at the notion of being abandoned yet again. The same innocent child that everything inside a dead husk of a creature came instantly back to life for almost a decade ago now, because something inside him wanted so badly to protect this fragile, tender young thing from all the pain and ugliness he knew the world could bring…

My anger falters, wrestling desperately for control with my desire to shelter her as her voice loses all of its power and drops to barely a whisper as she goes on.

"Unless you don’t… I mean, is that it? Are you… leaving again?" (("I can’t go on without you in my life now, Buffy…")) She shakes her head as if to clear it. "Which I know is really stupid, since you don’t really have anywhere to leave right now…"

And without any warning at all, she reaches out and slaps me. Hard. "Just fucking SAY something that doesn’t involve LEAVING YOU ALONE!"

For a moment, the blow sends me reeling… both literally in space as I take a defensive step back, and metaphorically in time… (("You hit me!" "Not to go all schoolyard, but you hit me first…")). It’s enough to bring back all the hurt and anger… the frustration, the desire denied… and the confusion, all in a blazing rush. ((Why don’t you love me anymore? How can you regret us?)) "What do you WANT FROM ME, BUFFY?! I don’t understand what the Hell you want! Do you like these come here/go away games we play? Is that why you do this?" I grab her arm and give her a vicious shake, holding her with a grip that will no doubt leave bruises. I need to know. I HAVE to know. "Tell me! Tell me what the Hell you want me to do or say or be, because I just don’t GET IT!!!" The frantic desperation… the panic in my voice frightens me. I’m out of control. I can’t seem to stop myself from losing it, and I don’t want to hurt her, but I *want* to hurt her, because she hurt me So. Much. (("...it’s just such a waste..."))

Her voice is small. Crumpled. Lost. Her eyes fill with tears. "I just want you to talk to me. . I want everything you were so fucking *optimistic* about earlier." She tries to struggle out of my grip, but I’ve got her tightly, so she gives it up and makes a little growling sound in the back of her throat as her fire returns. "I want all those things I still can't have from you, but right now, all I want is for you to STOP ACTING LIKE AN ASS!" 

All the angerlustloveconfusion that’s been coursing through me for the past 24 hours finally takes its toll, and suddenly… I’m just empty. There’s not even enough strength remaining in my body to stay upright anymore, let alone hold an angry Slayer ((friend… savior…beloved…)) in place when she doesn’t want to be held. I let her go and collapse onto the bed, staring down at the far less nauseating carpet of this room.

"Just go, Buffy. I can't talk to you right now, okay? Please." I just want her to leave me alone. I don’t want to discuss or fight or… really, do anything. I just want to not be here anymore. I want the past two weeks never to have happened at all.

Without hesitation, she moves over to the bed and kneels down at my feet, unconsciously supplicating herself… the universal signal of surrender… of peace. She places her hands on my knees and gazes up at me, worry shadowing her fine features. "Just tell me what I did that made you so angry. Or . . . just tell me what to do to make it better. Because I don't get this, Angel. I don't get *you* right now, and that scares me."

I can't look at her. Her submissive, comforting gestures are so totally at odds with what I overheard. Could I have somehow misunderstood? 

(("I wish I'd never met him. I wish none of it had ever happened. I wish I'd never seen his stupid face, I wish I'd never fallen in love with him.")) 

No… those weren’t ambiguous sentiments. And they weren’t said with even a hint of uncertainty. This struggle is just a waste of time. My voice is still venomous, if softer, as I push her off and get up to look out the window at the night. "Just go."

I can almost feel her posture sag... defeat clear in her voice. "Fine. You want me gone? I'm gone. Never let it be said that Buffy Summers can't take a hint when she's broadsided with it several dozen times in a row. Enjoy your brooding solitude." 

Her scent slowly fades as she leaves the room, leaving me standing there, staring out at nothing but the smoking wreckage of a life... a love... that never really got the chance to get off the ground.

I close my eyes and let the pain run through me. It’s an old friend, loneliness... a trusted ally who never throws any curveballs at me. I know darkness. I know agony. I know disappointment and disillusionment so well...

God... I hurt.

(("She know you’d two love, but never did she see how you’d love... how completely, how fiercely."))

(("Maybe I don’t want a friend."))

(("We see what you are... what you two have become... what you create together.")) (("Loneliness is just about the scariest thing in the world..."))

(("We need you to stand together, in the full power of what you share, what you have become. Together, you are strong...")) (("Shhh. Just kiss me..."))

(("To let you ‘member what you two got between you... passion and fire dat will be savin’ da world, someday."))

(("There’s got to be some way we can still see each other..."))

(("...da Huntress call ya back wit’ da tears of her heart..."))

(("I love you. I try not to, but I can’t stop..."))

(("How good a warrior be dat have no happiness to fight for?"))

(("How’s forever? Does forever work for you?"))

(("When this is over... if we survive... I’m not going to say goodbye..."))

(("Every time I see you again, it tears me up inside!"))

(("We’ll make this work, right?"))

(("Close your eyes…"))

(("Would ya be half so strong... love da girl half so much, had you not survived all ya done?"))

(("I’ve died over you so many times..."))

I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here, remembering it all… all these turning points in our lives. So many things that have changed us both so deeply, so irreversibly. I can’t just let it end like this... can I? After everything we’ve been through together... all the things that we’ve been to one another... can I just let her walk away in anger, without at least trying to understand?

But… she made it perfectly clear that she regrets it all, and can I blame her? Hell, there have been more than a few times when *I* regretted ever meeting her. I think…the best thing to do is let it go. Leave this behind and try to put what’s left of my life and my heart back together without her. The others don’t need me here. The Agatoire isn't really dangerous. I can leave the car with Wesley and the others, catch the redeye to LA tomorrow night, and be back home in time for Fred’s weekly Taco Fest. Forget all of this. Forget it ever happened. Lock it away with the other painful memories that serve no other purpose than to make me bleed.

I might not be able to have Buffy, but… at least I can take cold comfort that Angelus will never terrorize the world again. That, at least, is something.

It’s over, now. I have to let it go. If the Powers really think that we’re better off together, then they’re more sadistic and foolish than I ever imagined.

That decided, I realize that whether I want to or not, I need to get ice. I may be dying inside... I may be so consumed by pain and regret that all I really want to do is turn to dust and be vacuumed up by the maid tomorrow, I’m still a vampire. I still need to feed. 

So I retrace my earlier steps down the hall, collecting my bucket from where I abandoned it after Buffy knocked it from my hands. (("I can do this all night, how about you, sweetheart?")) Determined not to think about her anymore, I force myself to move to the ice machine... 

And end up looking further down the hall at her door. She’s in there... maybe crying... maybe confused and hurting. Maybe...

No, damn it! I can’t leave without understanding what the Hell's going on. I fling the ice bucket aside and stomp down to her room. Almost without my conscious volition, I begin violently pounding on her door.

"Buffy? Let me in! I want to talk to you!" 

After a moment, she rips the door open, thus ensuring a fairly heavy damage bill for both our parties. She was obviously getting ready for bed, and she's wearing that terrycloth robe again. The one that’s just a tad too big for her tiny frame, and the gape that exposes her cleavage draws my eyes automatically, the same way it did this afternoon. I wondered then, and I wonder now - how is it possible for someone look so ravishing in a plain, frumpy bathrobe? Her long hair is pulled back in a ponytail, her face wet and glowing and bare of make-up. For a moment, I’m so stunned by her natural beauty, I almost forget what I was going to say, and instead, I remember... 

I love her. I want her. I need her. And stubborn pride be damned, we *should* be together. An icy calm washes over me, even in the wake of her next angry words.

"WHAT!? What is so incredibly important that you have to BEAT DOWN my door to get my attention? Didn't get enough fun out during the ten rounds of 'make Buffy feel useless and stupid' earlier? Well, I'm sorry, Angel, but we're closed for tonight." She tries to slam the badly beaten door in my face.

I kick it out of the way, and without any thought to do so, grab her by both arms, and attack her hot, toothpaste-minty mouth with fierce, desperate, angry gusto... bruising strength, as though I’m trying to force her to change her mind by sheer will. I let her go, and stand there, glaring at her. I’m not sure what I expect her to say or do...I don’t know what I want to say or do... all I know is that I can’t leave her life forever without knowing... maybe tasting... feeling... just this once.

The itching burn under my skin kicks up a notch at the contact, and I feel myself start to tremble as she looks at me in open-mouthed shock.

"Okay . . ." She's breathless and panting, obviously trying to regain her bearings. "Confused now." 

Good. That means that I’m not the only one.

I stand there, staring down at her, at the way she’s leaning forward, her head still tilted up just a little, as if to invite me to do it again. And I know full well, despite my own confusion and hurt, that I’m doomed... because I want more than anything to do it again, even if she did mean what she said earlier. Without thinking, I reach out and untie her robe, push it open to reveal the smooth, soft curves of her body, and stare at her some more. 

"Umm . . .okay . .. moving into forbidden territory here." She sounds nervous, but... makes no attempt to correct her semi-nudity.

Still not saying anything, I take a step closer. And another, until we’re mere inches apart. I reach up and trace one long line with my fingertip from the hollow of her throat down the middle of her body to her stomach, following my journey with my gaze, before I finally look into her eyes once more. "Tell me it wasn't a waste."

Her breath catches in her throat, and she shivers under my touch. "Wha- what? What wasn't a waste?" I can scent desire, anger, and complete befuddlement in equal measures in her blood, and that only makes me want her more.

She wants to play games? I can play games, too. Ones that she’s never even imagined.

I reach inside the robe to cup one of her breasts, softly teasing the nipple with my thumb as I continue looking into her eyes, searching for the answer there. "This. Us. It wasn't a mistake."Buffy forces herself to hold my gaze. "I . . . no. It . . .of course it wasn't . . . you think it was a waste?" She leans almost unconsciously into my touch, a squeaky moan in the back of her throat as I continue to caress her.

She feels so good that I almost don’t care what she’s saying... I just want to touch more of her. My other hand slips to her waist, and with a low growl, I yank her close to me. "Tell me. I don't care if you're lying. Tell me you don't regret it." 

"I don't . . ." She replies immediately, raising her hands to my chest, barely touching… two points of fire on my skin, ripping through my nerves, taking a vice grip on my heart. "Angel, I don't regret anything. Sometimes I wish I hadn't hurt you like I did. But . . . it got us here, and here isn't *that* bad when you put aside the fact that you're seriously wigging me out right now." 

Her words say she’s confused and frightened...but I notice that she hasn't moved away; and has, in fact begun rubbing her body against mine.

I lean down to her until our lips are millimeters apart. I can feel her too-fast breath on my face… hear her heartbeat thundering like a storm in my ears, pounding against my chest. The hand that I had held at her waist slips up her back. I gently tug out the elastic binding her hair, and thread my fingers into it, a wave of goosebumps rising on her skin in the wake of my touch. I move my hand again to stroke her soft cheek. "I just want you to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted. You have to know that." 

I need her to know... I never wanted to cause her any of the considerable pain that I have. The only thing I’ve ever wanted since the first time I saw her was to make her smile. She may regret it all... but I can’t. I’m only sorry that her memories of me are so dark and negative that the special, rare and beautiful things we’ve shared fade beneath them.

"You make me happy," She whispers, smiling a little, still not completely understanding, but willing to put her reservations aside in the name of peace between us… and, I’m sure, the same charmed fire of want rushing through her veins as is blazing in mine. "Incredibly frustrated when you do things like come into my room and undress me when you know we can't let it go anywhere . . . But happy."

I’m unhinged, destroyed like the ruined door behind me, and now awash in the fact that I’m actually *touching* her. That she’s making no move to stop me. She’s not pushing me away... not rejecting me the way she should if she meant what she said earlier. I consider saying something... maybe explaining myself...telling her what I’ve learned about my soul before I give in at long last and ravish her. But... words have completely escaped me in the blinding light of her beauty… in the profound rush of emotion that fills me in this moment. I brush a soft, brief kiss to her lips… and then another. Then I look at her again. Whisper from my heart, "Do you love me, Buffy?"

(("Do you love me?")) (("What?")) (("Do you?")) (("I love you. I don’t know if I trust you.")) (("Maybe you shouldn’t do either."))

She breathes deeply against my mouth. "You know I do. I always have."

I hold back from her, needing more. "Say it. Tell me. Look me in the eye and tell me." I wonder for a moment whether the lack of affect in my voice is as disturbing to her as it is to the tiny, still-lucid part of me.

She looks me in the eye, and speaks clearly, if a little breathlessly. "I love you, Angel. I love you so much I feel like I'm being torn apart whenever you leave me." Her hand creeps up until it slips beneath the collar of my shirt, and she presses her palm against bare skin above where my heart once beat. "This is how I feel you. Right here, pressing against my chest every minute of every day."

I take a sharp, quick breath at her touch. My eyes slip closed for a moment as I drown in the bliss of that simple caress. When I look upon her again, I feel my expression soften... the wounds her words opened in me no doubt showing in my gaze right along with the fact that I want her right now more than I’ve wanted anything in two and a half centuries of life. I claim the hand that lies flush against my dead ((and still hurting. It’s dead. It shouldn’t hurt)) heart and draw it to my lips, softly brushing the pulsepoint at her fine wrist. "And this is where I feel you. In my blood. Buffy..." My mind trails off, because the realization is crashing through me in ever-increasing waves... that I want her, need her, love her as I always have, with every ounce of my being... but there's this new thing that I can barely comprehend - I can HAVE her. For a moment, I’m frozen with it, lingering at her wrist as if there’s no where else in the universe for my lips to be.

"M-m-maybe we should . . . Ah . . ." She gives a little whimper, and hooks one of her fingers into the belt loop of my pants. "Angel, we can't . . ."

I know that’s my cue to tell her. To explain why I’m finally giving in to all of the things we’ve been denied for so long. But some little boy lost part of me is still insecure, and can still hear her angry, dismissive words echoing, still remember all the pain we’ve ever inflicted on one another. "Do..." I swallow convulsively, almost unable to form the words. "Do you want to? Be... with me, I mean..."

((Please, God, please say yes. I’ll die right here, right now, if you don’t say yes because I *need* you... I’m starving for you... for your kisses... your body... your warmth... your love...))

"Are you crazy?" She's still breathing her words, laughing a little hysterically, and I can scent the desire growing in her most intimate shadows. But the words are almost desperate... she thinks she can’t have me. "Angel, since I was sixteen-years old, that's all I've wanted. But . . . it's not . . " She leans in and inhales the side of my neck, like an animal sniffing at its mate. So natural, so right, the way our bodies speak to one another, needless of words, and all the injured thoughts in our human brains cease to matter at all...

My mind shrieks, "Okay, now. Tell her now. Tell her. IDIOT, TELL HER!!!" 

I can’t. I can’t do all that thinking… I can’t make words come out right now. I just need… I *have* to touch her. I *have* to make love to her. So instead, I grab her and crush her to me, and dive into her with a deep soul kiss. I slip her robe off her shoulders and let my hands wander over them...((living heatllovelustlife…)) One smooths up to clasp the back of her neck, pulling her closer as I devour her sweet lips, while the other wanders over the hills and valleys of her form... back... breasts... waist... hips. 

It’s not enough… ((it’snotenoughit’sneverenoughIwantitallIwantitnow...))

She moans helplessly against me, wrapping her arms around my neck for leverage. She stands up on her toes to return my desperate kiss, just the way she did back when we were young and innocent and we didn’t know that it was wrong and the kiss blazes through me washing any small coherency away so I can’t tell her that it’s okay and I just can't STOP now even though she’s going to think that we should. She shivers and mumbles against my mouth "Angel, we can't, not again, it isn't fair to you, and what if we can't stop this time?"

I don’t slow my attentions for even a moment, licking softly at the tender cupid bow curve of her lips, giving her only the minimum words necessary to ensure that this. Never. Ends. "We don't have to." 

And with that, the truth of what is happening between us seems real for the first time, and I hold her even more tightly as my kisses slip down her neck, and I lave gently at the scar on her throat. My hand busies itself, teasing agonizingly soft circles over the very tip of her left nipple.

She squeaks again… a sound that manages to melt my heart and harden my body all at once. She's holding herself back from this, holding onto something rational with everything she has in her. I should tell her… ease her confusion and fear. But the words… the story… they’re so far from my mind now that the walls between us have already come down. "Angel, the curse . . ." She objects, and yet, still leans in and painstakingly traces every inch of my ear with a feathersoft caress of her tongue.

The contact forces a groan from my throat. "No curse," is all I can manage, and I pray it’s enough, because I *can’t* hold back anymore. I tangle my fingers in her hair and bring her up to kissing range... where I proceed to crush our mouths together with everything inside of me. "Don't worry. I’ll always keep you safe. Buffy... I love you..."

Her nails dig into my chest in shock, and she pulls away from my mouth. "Wait. What? How?" She shakes her head. "Never mind. I don’t care. Tell me later." She gives up speech in favor of suckling at my neck… takes my shirt in her hands, ripping all of the buttons off with a preternaturally strong yank.

"I promise," I gasp, helping her remove the tatters of that first layer of armor separating us, and push her toward the bed, where we finally tumble down...every nerve in my body screaming… ((ohgodyesohgodyesfinallyBuffyyes!)) I devour her throat, her collarbone... lick across her shoulders, and back to her breastbone. Oh God! Has she always tasted this good? Did she taste this good in the sewer this morning or the first time we made love or on the day that I was human or any of the millions of moments I’ve tasted her in my mind? "God... I miss the way you taste... your skin... you're so warm..." I moan into her trembling flesh, ravishing her perfect breasts with my tongue and teeth, lips and hands…

She slides one of her legs up my body until her knee practically touches her shoulder. Her hand slips between us and she rips my belt away, then shreds the fly of my slacks. She uses her foot to push my pants and boxers down in one smooth motion, bringing up the other foot up to aid. I wiggle my hips automatically to assist her. I want to be naked with her so badly. Skin on skin. Her heat warming me. Right now. Rightnowrightnowrightnow... 

Her hands maul my head, combing roughly through my hair until she digs her nails into the back of my neck, forcing my head up until we’re eye to eye. "Never act like cold guy with me again, or you're such dust." She runs her foot along my hip, coming dangerously close to my erection with her toes, driving me almost to distraction.

Almost.

I stop what I’m doing, and feel a little flash of hurt cross my face. "I wouldn't have... if you had just told me about the regrets you've been hiding from me all this time."

A new wave of confusion overwhelms the lusty look that had captured her beautiful face. "What?" Once more, she shakes her head. "You know what? No. Not going to get into this with you. Not now." She tightens her knees around my hips, and with another burst of Slayer strength, flips us over so that she's sitting astride me. Her nails return to what apparently has become their favorite resting spot, my pectorals, and rubs her hot, soaking apex over my stomach. "Just say you're sorry for not talking to me." 

I grunt mindlessly, and my hands move of their own accord to smooth up and down her back, and… good God, she’s so steamingsearingwethot…She’s setting me on fire… thank the Powers… at last on sweet, consuming fire.

And still, I have to run my mouth. "I didn't want to talk to you. Why should I apologize for that?" My hands arrive at her rear, and I push her more tightly against me with a little moan. I want inside her so badly. All these words are just wasting time…

She emits a little whine of annoyance, a 'what gives?' sound, then she slides backward on me until the cheeks of her rear surround my aching penis like a cocoon of torturous ecstasy. She leans forward, stretching her torso out over mine, rubbing her breasts against me, and nips at my chest playfully, but with an edge of warning, as well. Pain and pleasure all wrapped into one like she’s always been and doesn’t she know she doesn’t need to use pain because I’m already her willing servant…"YOU flipped out for NO reason and you don't think you have to apologize?!" Her nails scrape down my sides like some sensuous exclamation point, sending a shudder down my spine.

I thrust up automatically between her cheeks, digging my fingertips into her hips to guide her up and down, and lean up to nip at her breasts. "No... reason? I don't think... oh God... you calling our relationship a mistake -- among other things -- is... no reason. So, no... I won't apologize." Another shiver rips through me, I groan deeply, and flip her over again, attacking her mouth, slipping my tongue inside to trace the edges of her teeth as I nudge her legs open with my knee and begin teasing her intimate lips with the tip of my cock.

I’m done talking. All we’ve done for years now is talk, and we can say so much more with our bodies, our hands, our lips...

Her eyes narrow… in anger or lust, I don’t know… probably both, if she’s feeling half of what I’m feeling right now. "I never," She slides her tongue against mine with a tiny groan of need. "...said -- oh! you eavesdropping fink!" Buffy takes control, turning us over again, sitting up high on her knees above me. Visions of succubae and Shiva rush through my mind as she grabs my wrists in her hands and pins my arms above my head. She leans down right in my face so I can feel her hot, too-fast breath on my skin, and without preamble slams herself down on my erection, crying out as I fill her. "Maybe! . . ." she pants, "If you hadn't lurked and run you would have heard me tell Willow that I was kidding myself, you big idiot, and that I love you, even though you're monumentally stupid." 

I let out a guttural groan of complete, overwhelming, all-consuming bliss as she slams me inside of her. I take a few long, incredible moments to thrust upward before I can find the strength to respond. "I didn't... Jesus, Buffy... oh... think there... was... oh my God... anything else... to hear. You... mmmmm... didn't exactly mince... words."

"I was *venting*!" she informs me with a particularly sharp nip to my lower lip that draws blood. She licks it away. ((God yes drinkmedevourmemakemeyoursagain)) "Meaning, *to rant thoughtlessly*, usually with ones female friend, about the guy she's in love with that's driving her to DISTRACTION." She releases my wrists so she can rest her hands against my chest, giving her the leverage to ride me more enthusiastically.

Which I eagerly facilitate by returning one of my newly freed hands to her hip, digging in to drive her down harder. The other slips into the damp nest of curls between her legs, and begins smoothly circling her diamond-hard, quivering clitoris. "Talk... later. Make love... now."

"You never wanna talk . . ." She mumbles, undulating harder, mewling gratefully as I caress her. She lowers her head to my chest and starts sucking at my flesh, taking a nipple, laving it, then biting it roughly, panting almost frantically. "It's not . . . enough. You're not . . . God, you need to be deeper." 

Yes, God... deeper. So deep I can never find my way out again, and she’ll swallow me whole so I’ll always be inside her. Always safe and warm and blessed...

With an affirming snarl, I roll her onto her back again, hitching her knees up over my shoulders and driving into her deep, fast, and furious. I shut my eyes in concentration as I slam home, all of restless energy I’ve built up inside of me since I’ve known her taking me over, my considerable weight balancing on the backs her legs. "God! Buffy! You feel so... unngh!" 

She hisses into my ear. "Yessss . . ." Her arms wrap tightly around my back, sliding beneath mine, and she digs her fingers into my rear end, encouraging me to go harder and faster. "Good, good, good . . ." she chants, throwing her head back on the pillow, moaning helplessly.

Helpless. God, yes. Helpless in the face of this... her... the one part of my Destiny that has been missing for so long, and now that I’m inside her again, I remember the feeling of the First Time, when I had known without a doubt that she was the reason I Am. She is What I Will Become… the center, the core, the foundation, the meaning, the Reason Why and I never want to be any farther away from her than this again.

I dive down to her exposed throat, nipping and licking at my mark, and growl, "I want to taste you. Starving for you..." I nip a little harder, but still don’t break the skin, because yes, her blood is calling to me, but I would never take her unless she wanted me... "Please. Let me drink you ...please pleasepleasebuffygodohgodohgod..." My control is quickly slipping away, obliterated by my impending release and the scent of her skin, her feminine musk, her sweet, life-giving blood... essence of beloved… Chosen One of my soul.

"Yes . . . God, Angel, please!" She brings one of her hands to my head, pushing me firmly to her throat. "Take me. Take all of me, make this . . . this itch go away. Make this ache go away. I *need* you to take metakemenow!" She squirms against me, helpless in the position she's in, completely open and submissive and trusting, and something about that screams to the animal in me. I can feel her giving in, giving herself to me, her body surrendering utterly, as well as hear her words, and at that moment, I *know* that what I heard her say to Willow wasn't the whole truth. Everything in me knows that I love her and she loves me and we’re about to embark on the great odyssey of the rest of their lives together... starting in this consuming moment, when I take her again... freshen my brand on her, and renew our bonding until the end of time. "I love you," I growl, and sink my fangs into her throat.

A raw scream leaves her mouth and one hand fists the sheets below us, pulling them free; the other, she buries in my hair, holding my forcibly mouth to her neck, arching against me, begging me to keep drinking, keep taking as she comes all around me, shivering and shaking, exploding and thrusting and shuddering...

As she climaxes, something bursts in the air all around us, like thunder booming... the French doors burst open to admit gusts of hot, humid air that smell like love and sex and forever and hunger never sated... the sweet friction of our bodies joining, our souls melding, setting the sky on fire.

I moan greedily as I drink her as hard and fast as I’m fucking her, until the last of sense and reality disintegrates in the literal storm that rocks the room, and I pull away, her body clenching around me, driving me wild, her charmed blood rushing through my veins, her screams echoing in the air, and I throw my head back and give one long, raging bellow as I come deep inside of her. Years of pain and longing and loneliness rushing out of me in a maelstrom that knocks the lamp from the bedside table… rips the thick curtains from the windows…

More spent than I have ever been in my life, I immediately collapse into her arms. "God... Buffy..." I want so much to look at her, to see the bliss on her exquisite face, but I just can't seem to make myself move.

She turns her head to the side and kisses my cheek, then my jaw. Her legs fall from my shoulders to thump bonelessly against the bed, spread out like a blanket of warmth beneath me. Her arms wrap around my back and her fingers trace ticklish circles up and down my spine, sending a new set of shivers through me... 

And something that suspiciously feels like laughter bubbling up in my soul… my heart… a sensation so foreign, it almost overwhelms the humming of her blood in my veins… this moment of perfect bliss that I never dared to hope we would share again.

"Angel?" she whispers, a little touch of worry returning to her passion-hoarse voice. "Are you . . . you know . . . you?"

For *that*, I find the will to raise my head. It takes a minute, but... I look down at her with a smile that is newborn from the deepest depths of my long-cold heart. "I'm still me. And before you ask... yes, it was perfect." I dip down and kiss her softly, reverently, with all the joy shimmering over my skin, then finally roll away, pulling her against my chest and into my embrace. I kiss the top of her head, then just... lie there, enjoying the amazing, mind-numbing way she feels stretched out against me. "It didn’t last as long as I would have preferred, but…"

Buffy rubs her cheek against my chest, looking up at me sternly. "Okay, Soul Man. Now is the time that you explain to Buffy why you haven't turned into a slathering beast, determined to eat her." 

I arch an eyebrow at her and shoot a wry half-smirk. "Who says I'm not?" Because, frankly, I’m imagining burying my face between her thighs and tasting the ambrosia our love creates right. This. Second.

She buries her face against me, showing a child-like shyness that tugs my heartstrings, then brings her gaze firmly back to mine, resting her chin against my chest. "Promises, promises." Her grin fades, and she’s serious once more. "Spill. Now. I wanna know why I'm suddenly allowed to do this," She runs her hand gently down to my stomach; teases the hair at my groin for a moment with the tips of her fingers. "And this." She places a loving, gentle, open-mouthed kiss over my heart...

Which sings to her in joy. She does love me. I do love her. And nothing will deny us that simple comfort ever again.

I close my eyes and sigh deeply... happily, and thread my fingers through her hair. As much as I would like nothing more than to just… lie here and hold her… I owe her this. "I'm not sure I understand all of it myself, honestly. But the gist is..." I take a deep breath, knowing she isn't going to like this AT ALL, but... "When I came back from Hell… I guess… the Powers made me… whole again." It sounds lame, but... how else can he explain it? I cringe, waiting for her understandable anger. "I ran into an old friend of mine… a very powerful voodoun priestess with... contacts, and... her theory is that the Powers realized they'd, uh... made a bit of a mistake with us. That they wanted us allied, not estranged."

For a long, tense moment, she is silent in my arms. But when that moment passes, she begins to tremble as the initial shock wears away.

"The *Powers* want us together?" she yelps bitterly, "The same *Powers* that have continuously driven us apart at every turn? The same *Powers* that have ruined every single birthday I've had since becoming the Slayer? *Those* *Powers*?!" She glares at the unseen force that has caused her so much pain, her anger making her unconsciously dig her nails into my skin again.

That’s a habit I’m going to have to work on breaking her of. Soon.

I flinch and tense up, then gently pry her claws out of my flesh. "I assume so, considering they're the only "Powers" I'm familiar with. I guess... maybe they feel like we've been tested enough."

"Well, I'm *so* glad that *they're* finally satisfied!" Buffy barks, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She sits up, leaning away from me, her breasts bouncing as she virtually shakes with rage. "Do you realize what this means? When you came back from hell . . . we didn't have to stay away from each other." Suddenly, tears fill her eyes, and her voice is soft and hurt once more. "You never had to leave me."

I sit up beside her... trying really hard not to notice her breasts jiggling, because... now is not the time for lust, but for... um... other, non-lust things. I soothingly stroke her back. "I know. I had pretty much the same reaction. But you know as well as I do that the reasons I had to leave weren’t that simple. There were lessons we needed to learn apart. Anais reminded me... look how much we've grown. How much we've learned since we've been separated. Don't you think we're better suited for one another now than when you were a 17 year old full of little girl dreams, and I was a hulking wreck of nothing without a single thing at all to give you? You can't deny that we've gained a lot of wisdom and self-knowledge in the meantime that we never would have if we hadn't been separated. Besides..." I move around to look into her face, and give her a smile. "We're here now, and we're free. Does the rest of it really matter? They gave us something good for a change, and I, for one, intend to enjoy it." I gently brush her upper arm with my fingertips.

"They were not little girl dreams," She counters primly. "They were maybe a little . . .naive." She stares down at her lap for a moment, then looks back up at me once more, her expression earnest. "You know they're not naive anymore, right? You get that I get what this is? No more pulling the rug out from under Buffy two days before prom because of some misguided attempt to delude yourself into thinking I need some normal life that I can never have anyway?" She smiles solicitously. "Which, by the way, is what we're sort of having at school, although we're not calling it prom, because," she sits up straighter and affects a deeper voice, "We're very mature and way above silly little school dances." She grins, and becomes herself again. "But there promises to be loud music you hate, plenty of alcohol, and the kind of dancing you swear isn't really dancing. And I get to see you in a tux again."

I can’t help but laugh as I take her hand and nibble at her knuckles as I look deeply into her eyes. "Why, Miss Summers, are you asking me to a loud, uncomfortable setting where I'll feel completely awkward, stupid, and out of place, on a date?"

She bobs her head happily. "Just wanna keep you on your toes." She rests her hands on my chest and pushes me back onto the bed, then proceeds to crawl on top of me. "Actually," She murmurs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of my neck. "Where I really want you is flat on your back."

"Mmm," I purr at her, "You mean, I can't get off my back at all? For anything? What if the world comes to an end or something? Shouldn’t we be there for that?"

"Not if it involves in any way leaving me alone in this bed." She straddles my thighs, and brushes a long, searing line of kisses down the center of my chest, to my abdomen, where she pauses to bite at the tender flesh there.

I’m compelled to gently caress her back, enjoying her attentions with my eyes close in pleasure. "I won't be leaving you anywhere where I'm not. Ever again." 

"You better believe it, buddy," She mumbles, taking in mouthfuls of my flesh, moving lower to my rapidly recovering erection. She takes the head between her lips and sucks softly, laving her tongue over the tip, giving a delighted moan as I harden further inside her mouth.

I moan in return, long and deep in my chest, and wind my fingers in her hair. There’s a physical déjà vu, here, of a day that seems so long ago now, when she was still innocent, and I still didn’t know about Shanshu, or how deep my love for her really ran… A single, perfect day when there was nothing between us but love and the pleasure of one another’s body.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He remembers stickysweetcold dripping on his chest, and how she dove down to lick it off, and he laughed, pulling her into his arms, on top of him, lapping the blissful taste of chocolate from her lips.

She returns his kisses and his embrace, then pulls away, smiling shyly. "Um . . . Angel, there's something that I . . ." She blushes, then giggles, high on how amazing it feels to be here with his warm, HUMAN body, and his heart quivers and cracks with the love of her. "Never mind. Just kiss me."

He gifts her with a grin. One of a storehouse overfilled with them, it seems, that have only been dusted off and taken out in the past 16 hours. 200 years worth of lost smiles. " 'Kay." He says, more cheerful than he can ever remember being, and kisses her soundly. "What were you going to say?"

"You're going to think I'm a clueless loser," she mumbles.

He cocks an eyebrow at her. Says, gently, "I sincerely doubt that."

She takes a deep breath, mutters to herself, "Courage, Summers," and looks him in the eye. "Okay, so . . . so far in this relationship things have been a little one-sided, sex-wise. It's been sort of me, me, me . . . and I was wondering if maybe we could let it be you, you, you . . . but I don't want to do it WRONG, and so I was wondering if you could . . . teach me?"

He blinks, very, very slowly as what she’s suggesting sinks in. "Teach you. You mean... to..." He blushes. His first blush in over two centuries, as well. The first time he’s ever felt the need, it seems, and even the vague sense of discomfort is a joy because it’s *human* discomfort, and he has *never* discussed sex explicitly with a female, before. "Buffy, I don't think you can do it... *wrong*..."

"Don't be so sure," she insists, wincing. "Um . . . See . . . there was this . . . guy. And we sort of . . . um . . " Tongue darts out to dampen nervous lips. "Well, there was a guy, and we did *it*, and I was . . . *wrong* and the next day he dumped me. Of course, Willow helped me realize he would have dumped me *no matter what* but I still . . ." She glances down, her armor peeled away, then back up at him. "I want to be *so* good for you. I want to be the only girl who ever touches your brand spankin' new human body, and I want it to be perfect."

He smiles, a little taken aback by her candor... and remembers the pang of jealousy that he'd felt -- above and beyond the searing pain of hot pokers in his abdomen -- when Spike mentioned she that had a new lover… and that lover hurt her. And for a moment, he remembers hoping that was just another way for Spike to torture him, that it wasn't true, and now he knows it is, and he *hates* that... but he manages to focus on what she said...the deep fear insecurity she’s entrusting to him. Insecurity that the demon he once shared his body with gave birth to, by soiling the profound, sacred moment of their first time. "I'm sure that whatever happened with... that " guy" ((that dead guy. Tell me his name and he’ll be dead before sunrise he hurt you and disrespected you and defiled you and I want his *head*))... it had nothing to do with you. But if you're not certain..." He shakes off the melancholy and darkness, and lets his smile grow just a tad wicked. "I'm sure that we can work on it together." He sits up a little and looks into her eyes. "Be gentle with me, though... I'm a virgin."

Buffy can't help but grin back. "You are, aren't you? This is the first time you've . . . as a . . ." Her smile gets wider as it becomes apparent how much she REALLY likes this idea. "Tell me what to do. I mean, I can only drop back ten and punt for so long." And with that, she lowers her mouth to his chest and makes sure she got ALL the chocolate up, JUST in case, so they’re starting with a clean slate.

He chuckles softly and tangles his fingers in her hair. "Well, what you’re doing right now’s a good start. Just a little lower."

Her face reflects fierce concentration, and she tries to do what feels right; runs her tongue over his belly, and dips into his navel; nibbles at his lower abdomen; moves down until she reaches his manhood. She brushes her cheek against the silky hardness, presses a kiss to the base, then bites her lower lip and looks up at him with big, wide eyes, her chin lightly resting over his groin. "Now what?"

He opens one eye to peak down at her. "Again... I suspect that you're a natural." He reaches down and takes her hand, guides it around his hardness and covers it with his own, showing her how to give him slow, light strokes. "Can you feel my... pulse?" 

"Yes . . .God . . ." She breathes, ducking her head down and, using the very tip of her tongue, lightly traces the throbbing vein on the side of his erection. "That's so . . . amazing. You're *alive*!" She laughs a little in wonder, like some part of her hadn't really believed it until that moment, when she felt his body’s rhythm against her tongue.

He's half-laughing, half-gasping, as well, moving his hand from her hand to the back of her neck. "What... oh god... what you... ha! just did... do more of that. Like a lollipop, sort of." He’s happy to the point of giddiness, still not completely able to accept that this is their reality now, and though many trials no doubt still lie ahead for both of them, the fact that they can take comfort in one another is a suit of impenetrable armor around his heart.

Gripping the base of his erection firmly, but gently, Buffy licks her lips and follows his suggestion. "Lollipop. I can do lollipop." Flattening her tongue, she slowly drags it up the length of his shaft, giving it a flourishing swirl at the tip. She does it again, along a different side of him, then opens her mouth and takes the head of his cock between her lips, sucking on him, and finally lets him pop out of her mouth, looking up, her hand stroking him firmly. "Is that okay?"

"Ugghhnnnnn... uh... uh huh..." Head thrown back, eyes screwed shut tight, he nods enthusiastically. He realizes, in some tiny, still lucid part of himself, that's he's a pretty poor teacher. Not that she, apparently, needs much guidance at all.

She smiles a little, wary still, though some of the insecurity is beginning to melt away. "Is that a yes?" She takes him back into her mouth, circling the tip of his erection with her tongue in slow, languid strokes, unable to contain the little "mmmmm" greedy mewling sounds she's making in the back of her throat.

He clutches her scalp spasmodically. "Oh, God, yes... that's a yes!" Opens his eyes to watch the tip of his cock disappear into her mouth. His hand wanders down to stroke her cheek, trace her chin in encouragement. Rasps, "Deeper. Take more of me in... but not too... much... yet." His breath is frantic, shallow, and for a moment, he wonders if he's having a heart attack... except for the distinct lack of actual *pain*.

Dutifully, Buffy follows his nearly incoherent instructions. She manages to get half of him down before she feels the tip at the back of her throat. Her hand continues to stroke him. Abruptly, she releases him, raises her head, and asks innocently, "Do I use my teeth at all?"

"NO!" he yelps. "No. Well... you *can*... but that's... sort of an intermediate move. Let's... work on your... gag reflex, first." 

She smiles complacently. "Okay. Back to where I was?"

He grins and nods. "And keep trying to go deeper, until you feel me in the back of your throat." He chuckles. He can’t help it. Everything suddenly seems so funny... "I don't think I've ever said these things quite so clinically before."

"Experienced teacher, are you?" Her tone is a little wicked. "That's okay. I'm an *eager* student." She dives back in and in very short order has him in the exact same position he was before. Her hand is still lightly moving over his root and she tries to take him a little deeper into her throat. She gags for a moment, but doesn't release him; instead, she lets the muscles in her neck relax as she starts sucking, hollowing her cheeks with the effort.

He cries out sharply. "Yes! Like that! Ughhhh... just... oh... Buffy, God... relax your... th-throat... muscles... and... God... don't stop. Please."

She thrills at the sounds she's eliciting from her lover, and avidly sucks him down further. She does just as he said, relaxing her throat so she can take him deep. She sucks and relaxes... sucks and relaxes, until she finally manages to take him all the way down so she can feel the tip of him brush her tonsils. Her hands busy themselves with stroking his belly.

He's almost completely incoherent, but he's trying his level best to tell her what else she can do, because, well... IT FEELS GOOD. She's got the deep throat down like she was born to it. "P-put... uhh... use one hand to... pump... follow your... mouth... and... oh my good, holy mother of Christ!" He tangles both hands in her hair and allows himself to thrust just the tiniest bit, not wanting to lose control when she's still so new to this. "Yes. That's... that's... Buffy...that’s so good... you’re so good..."

She continues to follow his every command, making grunting moaning sounds in the back of her throat. Her tongue is trying to lick as much of him as it can while she pumps him in and out of her mouth. The hand not stroking him moves to his ass, and she encourages him to thrust.

He starts to thrust a little harder and deeper into her face. Utterly beyond speech any longer, he reaches one hand down to claim the one from his rear, and guides it to his sac, showing her how to gently roll and cup his testicles in her fingers, which, naturally, rips a series of animal noises that he never even made as a vampire, from his chest. His brain, his heart, his body, his groin... every inch of him, inside and out is exploding, burning, pounding... it's so different than the orgasms he had as a demon. The heat down in his flesh and blood and cock and balls is literal... alive... pulsing with his thundering heartbeat. He knows he can't hold out much longer... especially as she increases her pace and the suction of her strong, eager mouth, and he stops her next down stroke with a soft nudge to her head. "B-buffy. Stop. You... have to... stop. I'm going to... I'm... I'm ... close...."

She grunts in denial, and doubles her efforts, sucking even harder, rolling his sac, circling the delicate flesh with her thumb. 

That’s the end, for him. He loses control completely, thrusting so hard he's arching them both off the bed, and letting out a banshee wail that can probably be heard in at *least* Hawaii, and maybe Japan as he shoots his hot *vital* seed into the back of her welcoming throat.

Buffy greedily licks up all the excess semen she couldn't swallow, and after she's thoroughly cleaned him, lets his softened penis slip from her mouth. She nuzzles at his hipbone for a moment, then languidly crawls up his body until they're even at eye level, her shyness returning again. "How'd I do, teach?"

He makes a sound that resembles "Guh," and wonders if he’ll ever recover the power of speech.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She’s improved since then. Which makes me wonder if she's been practicing. But I immediately dismiss the thought, deciding I'll just ignore any other lover she might have had and declare myself The First and Only One Ever, because the thought of her doing this with another man makes me *crazy* in a way I can barely describe… and then I’m no longer thinking anything at all beyond "brgblrrbgblrgb."

She hums in the back of her throat, and just like I told her oh-so-long ago, the now long-passed 'intermediate' stage lesson rears its head, and she scrapes her teeth *just* *right* over my aching length, then slams me roughly down into the back of her throat again.

"OHCHRISTBUFFYGAH!" I hear myself shouting. At this point, I almost don’t CARE that she's been practicing with all the lovers she never had. I begin thrusting into her mouth, forcing my head up so I can watch. "God, that's so beautiful..." I pet her hair in encouragement, tickling the edges of her earlobe, the line of her jaw. Finally, I let my head fall back and his eyes slip shut once more. "You feel so goooooooood ...baaaaby, ohhhhhhh..."

With a final, sinful lick to the tip of my straining erection, she pulls her mouth away. She brings her hand down to the base and squeezes me gently, but firmly. "Look at me, Angel."

I yelp in protest, but comply. If I ever had it in me to tell her no… I surely don’t anymore.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've thought about doing this to you over the years?" She bows her head and laps at me like an ice cream cone while I watch. Again, she pulls away. "I always had to imagine what you'd taste like, what you'd feel like . . . if I'd be good enough for you." She tickles the tip of her tongue beneath my foreskin. "Am I good enough for you?" She's part coy, part playful, a tiny bit insecure…

Did I already mention how much I love this incredible, strong, vulnerable, sensuous, fierce, tender, fearsome, loving woman?

Unfortunately, my most articulate attempt to express that sentiment comes out sounding more like, "Mmnnnngoodyesohhhh... Buffypleasepleaseplease..."

She grins at my response, then lets the very tip of me slip into her mouth again. She sucks firmly twice, then backs away. Eases me to the side of her mouth; brushes her cheek back and forth against me, and speaks casually, "Can I tell you a deep, dark secret that involves invoking the name of another man in our bed?" 

My eyes snap open of their own volition. "Wh-what?"

"I asked if I could share a secret that involves another man."

Okay, that would be the sound of my brain short-circuiting, and NO I don’t want her tell me anything that involves another MAN while she's doing THIS to ME! But damn it, I think I’m going to burst into flames any second if she doesn't let me COME! "Yes! You..." I force my voice to even. "You can... tell me... aaaaaaaanything."

She smiles in supreme satisfaction at my incoherence. Then, she continues, in a silkycasual voice, "I couldn't do this for Riley without it feeling like a chore."

((Oh, God, stopdon’tsayhisnameagainorI’llhavetohunthimdownanddisembowlhimwithasoupspoon…))

She laps at my ((*uncomfortably hard!*)) erection, wetly letting her tongue cover every inch, up and down. "Except . . . when I'd close my eyes real tight, and pretend he was you." Her hand begins to work me, stroking in slow, firm movements as she returns to licking at me like a lollypop. "It was hard to do it at all. He felt wrong. He *always* felt wrong, but I swear, Angel, when I got into the zone, when I had myself convinced he was you, I almost came right along with him." 

That said, she abruptly swallows me down to the root again, letting her hand drift away to play with my balls.

And wow, am I... half-flattered, half wishing hadn’t heard any of this, and all of that is swiftly being overwhelmed by the fact that I’m going to come REALLY HARD. "B-buffy! Ohgodgodgodyes... Buffy." I arch harder into her face. "Baby... your mouth... ohgodyourmouth..."

She moans and licks and sucks until I’m pumping up off the bed uncontrollably. Just as I’m about ready to burst, she releases me from her mouth and looks up again. She orders me sternly, "Look at me! I want to watch you when you come. I want you to see me drink every last drop." She dives back down and pulls me deep into her throat again, holding perfectly still, waiting for me to comply.

Fighting the urge to scream in both frustration and consuming bliss, I obey, looking down at her once more through half-closed eyes. The sight of my cock buried to the hilt in her throat wrenches a deep moan from me. I clutch either side of her head, circling my thumbs convulsively over her cheekbones. "Yes, baby... take it all. I love to watch you... you’resogoodyoufeelsoGOOD!"

Her cheeks hollow as she rolls her eyes up to watch me; makes contact with my gaze and moans around my girth as she somehow manages to take me deep enough to allow her to brush her nose against the wiry hair of my groin. She scratches her nails lightly over my stomach, which, frankly, drives me wild. The combination of her perfect sucking strength and rhythm, the hungry look in her eyes, and her nails digging at my abdomen are more than I can take, and I arch clean off the bed, my every muscle bowed, and with a long, shuddering moan, shoot deep into the back of her throat.

She swallows every drop, then lets me slip from her lips, only to follow me down and lick me clean. Then, she rests her cheek against my stomach and happily looks up at me, a tiny bit of wonder in her voice. "I finally know what you taste like." She presses a reverent kiss to my hip.

I give her a sated little smile, and tenderly stroke her face. "Is that good or bad?"

I remember That Day, when I taught her how to do this, that she said her only regret was never having known what I tasted like when I was cool… Back then, I was glad for the fact. The idea, frankly, disgusted me.

"It's definitely of the good." She gnaws on her lower lip as if she’s debating with herself over something. "All I could ever do was imagine, and make it up, and compare with . . ." She trails off, no doubt thinking (and correctly, I might add,) that when I’m not in the middle of an orgasm, she isn't sure she wants to say HIS name. "You're different. I always knew you would be, but . . . I didn't know how *much* different. You're cool and salty and sweet and I just like knowing for sure." She once again sets her chin against my stomach.

I *hate* having to think about the fact that HE existed... that HE touched her... *my* Buffy. But I guess...it’s not important, now. HE’S not important now. Except as a possible victim of a future beating from me for the way he disrespected her. Just thinking about that unfaithful, disgusting little bastard makes me want to perform acts of cruelty and violence I’ve *never* considered while still in possession of my soul. But this is about her... about making up for that first time and all the ugliness that came after. It’s about helping her see that there is beauty... so much joy in making love with her. With that thought in mind, I pet her tenderly. "Well, I’m glad your search for knowledge has been satisfied, then. But do you think you could do me a favor?"

She smiles. "As long as it doesn’t involve fat women singing in Italian."

Now, that’s just mean. I was trying to broaden her cultural horizons when I took her to see "Carmen" last year.

I smirk at her. "Very funny. No, no singing fat ladies."

"Okay. Anything, then."

I sit up, cradling her against my chest, peppering little kisses over her face, then look into her eyes. With all seriousness, and a tiny hint of desperation in my tone, I say, "I beg you, could you please, never, *ever* mention another man’s name while we’re in bed together? Please? Because it completely obliterates my attempts to suppress the fact that you’ve ever been with anyone else. Could you do that for me?"

She grins, teasing my chest with the tip of one of her daintily painted fingernails. "Whasamatta? Jealous? 'Cause you shouldn't be. You're the only one that leaves more than a dent in my memory."

Ah, those words. Maybe somewhere in her mind, I’m her only lover, too. "How much more?"

Her mouth follows the path of her finger. "Much." Kiss. "Much." Kiss. "MUCH more." She looks up at me with shining eyes. "If I wasn't half-trying to make you jealous, I wouldn't be able to recall anyone else at all."

I sift my fingers through her thick, silken hair. "Why would you want to make me jealous? Haven't I been tortured enough for one night?"

"For being such an idiot?" She teases, shaking her head. "No. How could you think I'd possibly mean anything you thought I meant? And don't you know my hysterical bitch fit voice by now? You've only had to listen to it a billion times." She frowns, and picks at imaginary bits of lint on my chest. "Maybe I like the idea of you being jealous. Maybe I like what it implies."

"And what’s that?" I ask her softly.

Her only reply is a shrug.

I decide to let it go, for now. "I wasn't exactly in my right mind, you know. I'd just gotten done hearing that all of the things I though I'd never have... suddenly were possible. And... I'm not jealous. I'm old fashioned. And maybe a little overpossessive."

She brightens a little, giving me an enchanting pout, "You're not even a little bit jealous? I guess it's painfully obvious that you have no reason to be. Given that I guess it’s obvious how totally nutso I am over you." She leans in and kisses me softly. "So, um... Just out of curiosity... how much stamina do you have, exactly? 'Cause I've never really gotten the opportunity to check."

I give her a knowing grin. Or maybe it’s a lusty leer... I can’t really be sure. "Maybe some scientific experimentation is in order to find out. Did you have something in mind?"

"If I have to spell it out for you, you really ARE old fashioned." Her eyes are dancing at me... a pure joy sparkling in their hazel depths that I can only remember seeing once before... and that day never happened.

I move to sit up, pulling her with me. "Maybe you need to help modernize me," I suggest, and bend to nibble her ear. "I've missed so much of the sexual revolution."

"Well, things haven't really changed all that much since you were drunk and disorderly. Not counting last night." She runs her hands up and down my back, giving a little whimper of appreciation as I flex, stretching languidly into her touch. "But... if you’d like a suggestion... maybe you could concentrate on my neck. It's really sensitive for some strange reason," she concludes with a smirk.

I obey, gently tickling my tongue down to the healing wound at her throat. There’s a rush of purely Neanderthal possessiveness and pride rushing through me to taste our mingled essences on that fine mark. "Hm. That's a nasty bite, there, miss. You really should be more careful of wild animals."

"Mmm." She arches her neck, offering herself up to me trustingly, gigglingmoaning as I tickle her skin. "All men are beasts. Mine's just extra beasty, the way I like him."

I chuckle softly, then turn all my focus on thoroughly exploring her neck. I lave up and down the length her jugular, behind her ear and down again, taking soft mouthfuls of flesh between my lips as I pull her closer, and move to the other side to repeat the process. Her pure, unconditional acceptance of who and what I am is the only thing that eases the lingering shame that I share my form with a murderous, bloodthirsty demon. In fact... I almost exult in the fact that that hidden part of me ties me so tightly to her... fills me with incredible sensations of hunger and lust. "Extra beasty, hm?" I purr, nipping at the opposite artery.

"Extra beasty goodness," she coos. She's straddling my waist now, and we’ve shifted so that we’re sitting up against the headboard. I hit a particularly sensitive spot, and she cries out in appreciation. "God, I don't think you missed ANYTHING about the sexual revolution."

I pull her more tightly still into my lap, so she can feel that stamina she’d asked about against her belly, as I moan, "I have amazing powers of observation and a photographic memory... and vampire resilience. They make up for a great deal."

She rubs her soft stomach against me, and nuzzles against the top of my head, then cups my face between her palms and pulls my gaze up to hers. She kisses me wetly, then leans away. "What's your favorite spot on a woman's body?"

My eyes flutter shut for a moment as I sigh happily, then look up at her again. "On you? Every part is my favorite." 

"No fair," she chastises. "I ask you a question like that, you HAVE to answer it." She thinks for a minute. "And now that I've made that rule, I just know it's going to come back and bite me." She smirks a little and emphasizes the words 'bite me'.

"It just might, at that." I give her a long, deep kiss before pulling away once more. "Instead of telling you my favorite part of a woman’s body, why don't I show you?"

She bites her lip, and leans back on her elbows, still lying on my legs. "Am I gonna like it?" 

My body gives a fierce throb in response to the sex kitten vibes she’s giving off. I have to wonder if maybe I spoke too soon in wishing she'd never had another lover, considering how comfortable she is with her body. So different than the quivering virgin she once was...

Nah... I still loathe the idea with every ounce of my being. But... I guess I’m more than willing to reap its benefits. I sit up fully, pulling my legs out from beneath her, and hover over her on my knees, giving a hungry smile.

How is it that I’ve had her over and over again... taken more pleasure in her delicious form than I’ve experienced in centuries, and yet I still feel like I’m starving for her? Like I can never get enough...

If it’s the Agatoire, I think we should reconsider killing it, and maybe send it a nice fruit basket, instead. This kind of hunger, I can deal with.

"I think you might..." I inform her as I trail a gentle fingertip down the center of her body, from her chin all the way down to her sex, where I can scent the same level of arousal that’s been there all night... like she is still unsated, too.

I’ll have to do something about that state of affairs.

She arches slightly beneath me as I trace that finger down her body, and offers me a pleased smile. "Imagine that. A two hundred and fifty-year-old vampire with a soul, and still just a guy at heart," she teases breathlessly.

I push my wandering fingertip into her curls, just a teasing sweep over her clit, and draw it out again as I slowly begin to bend over her, bringing our seeking mouths closer. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not even a little itty bitty one," she assures me, her voice a high-pitched squeak, colored with anticipation.

I lie on my stomach between her legs, hovering my face just inches from her epicenter. "My favorite part of a woman's body. Hmmmm." I press a little kiss to one silkysoft inner thigh, then the other. "Thighs are nice... But..." My kisses wander up the hollow of her pelvic bone, to the curve of her hip. "I like that, too. Hips are good. Still not my favorite, though." I move on to the sensuous hourglass of her tiny waist. "Waist... no..." Over her ribcage, to just beneath her breasts, tickling my tongue over the sensitive skin beneath. "Mmmm. Breasts? Close. Too cliche, though." I love to tease her like this... to feel her writhe and sigh and moan with increasing desperation beneath me as I nurse on one nipple for a time, caressing the other with my hand, then abruptly pull away again. "No, definitely not the breasts." Kisses move to her throat. "Slender throat. I definitely like the throat... but I suspect that might be a vampire thing, so..." I kiss her ear, under her jaw, her chin, to the other side of her jaw, and the other ear. Back down her throat, taking a while to torment her collarbone with the tip of my tongue. I love every part of her equally, truth be told... this is a moot task. Not that I mind this particular futility. "I don't know, Buffy. This is sort of a difficult question to answer."

"You are so much more evil WITH a soul than you EVER were without one," she moans, tense and boneless at the same time, spread out like a puddle of bliss on the bed beneath me. "And, just in case you're wondering, that was NOT a complaint." Her fingers drift lazily over my back, until I touch a particularly sensitive spot, which makes her tense and dig her fingers into my skin for a moment, then return to the languid caresses that are driving me right over the edge of control and sanity.

Funny... a few years ago, that off-handed, light-hearted comment might have sent me careening into a downward spiral of self-loathing and depression... but now... I love this kind of evil, because I know it’s a gift that I’m giving her. The gift of her own body, which she’s been so long denied because of me and her other less-than-positive sexual experiences.

"Well," I reply as I kiss my way between her breasts, down to her belly, and back up again, moving toward her right arm. "Evil comes naturally without a soul. It requires some practice with one." I flicker my tongue over her upper arm, pausing to lick at the crook of her elbow. "The elbow is nice, too... but that's still not it. You know, this could take a while."

"Believe me when I've say I've got all night." She purrs, bringing the arm I’m not avidly devoting attention to up to brush her fingers through my hair. Mmmm... that’s nice. "If you want, I've got the rest of my life for you to practice being soulfully evil on."

I arrive at her wrist, and lavish kisses there. "That sounds perfect." I tongue little circles into her palms, and suckle each of her fingers between my teeth. "See, now... hands are nice... maybe the other side." I proceed to do the same thing to the other arm, before moving back between her breasts to her stomach, where I make love to her belly button with my tongue... tiny, shallow thrusts that make her shiver. "If I give an honest answer, and say..." I lave at the gentle, feminine curve of her belly. "Your stomach, can I still check out the other parts again?"

"Baby, you can check out anything you want," she moans, and then... her expression turns serious. "You do get that I'm yours, right? That I *belong* to you? 'Cause we haven't really had time to discuss that, and given the limitations we've had on our relationship until recently . . .well, I just wanted to make sure you knew. You know?"

I smile gently up at her from my perch on her abdomen. "I know. And we will discuss it. We have a lot of things to talk about. But tonight... let's just... feed the demon. Okay?"

She gives me a wicked grin that makes my erection twitch. "And which demon would that be, exactly? The one out there, or the one in here?"

I shrug, and give her my own version of the lascivious grin. "Does it matter?" I emphasize my question by kissing my favorite part again.

She pretends to think about it. "No, I guess not. Is that really your favorite part of a woman's body?"

"Mmhm..."I concur into her stomach with a purr. "There's something incredibly sexy about something so simple being the source of all life. It's soft, but firm... strong, but with a feminine curve... there's nothing more erotic than a woman's belly."

Her head flops back against the pillows with a breathy moan as she thrusts her hips slightly into my face. "Wow. Never knew my stomach could turn me on so much." 

"Not as much as it turns me on," I whisper, and take a little while to kiss it more thoroughly. Meanwhile, my thumbs caress the insides of her thighs, and slowly, subtly spread her legs wider, opening her more fully to my view… and my touch. "Hm. Now here's an interesting spot," I growl, and brush a soft kiss to her netherlips.

Buffy gives a little squeak of surprise, then moans so deeply, I can feel it beneath my mouth. Her hips jump, thrusting her molten sex up at my face, her head still boneless on the pillow. "God, so evil so good so evil."

"Which is it?" I murmur, brushing another brief kiss to that most sensitive of skin, and follow up with a sweep of my tongue that just *barely* dips inside. "Good or evil?" I wait for her answer, smirking up at her. I can’t remember being this amused in… forever. Not to mention aroused.

"EVIL!" she shrieks, forcing herself up on her elbows to glare at me. "I hope you're enjoying yourself, because you're making me crazy."

I grin, lowering my face slowly toward the juncture of her form, and give a smartass shrug. "It's okay, I guess."

((Jesus, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, are you kidding?))

"Do you think this is cute? 'Cause it's not cute." She says, but… I bet she thinks it's cute. "Angel . . . come on . . . Did I tease you like this? Did I make you feel like you were going to crawl out of your skin if I didn't touch you?"

((Actually…))

I can feel slight shadows of the pain of being denied her for so long lingering in my heart. All those years when we couldn’t share more than the briefest, most innocent of contact, when all along, our desire for one another was consuming us from within. "Maybe you never teased me on purpose, but... " I trail off, trying to fight off the melancholy, because that's of the past. None of that matters anymore. 

"I never meant to tease you at all." Her voice is soft now, overflowing with the poignancy of the moment. Remembering that same longing. She sifts her fingers through my hair soothingly. "It’s just… it's been so long since we've been allowed this -- we've *never* been allowed this - I guess I'm just impatient for you." She rolls her eyes at herself. "I've been impatient for you for the last eight years."

I chuckle, quickly returning to the joy of the situation. What difference does it make how long we couldn’t be together? Now we can, we are, and we always will be. "Well... we don't have to wait anymore." To prove it to her… maybe prove it to myself… I caress her outer lips gently, massaging in featherlight circles with my thumbs before spreading them open and dipping my tongue inside to taste her heated, most intimate flesh. 

Oral sex is an art form neglected by most men... no doubt due to some lingering vestiges of Puritan guilt or Catholic ideas of impurity and sin holding them back. It’s one of the few areas I can be glad for the influence of the demon inside me... it’s a purely sensual, carnal, id-driven creature, able to completely dismiss any intellectual ideas about a woman’s most secret flesh in favor of its delights. And here, with Buffy, the appreciation goes so much deeper. To taste her heat, her desire gushing out in waves of bittersweet juices... to feel her passion grow in quivering muscles beneath my lips and tongue...

My lover is a delight the likes of which I’ve never experienced before. It’s an honor to be here, with her lying so vulnerable beneath me, utterly tuned to my every movement, leaving her pleasure trustingly in my hands... I could stay here forever. With agonizing care, I take the time to taste every square millimeter of her... performing this act in a polar opposite way from the animal attack I made on her in the sewer this morning (or it must be yesterday morning, by now...). I lavish her inside and out with adoring sweeps and flickers of tongue... gentle suckling with lips. I plunge slow and languid deep inside of her, trail the evidence of her pleasure and mine combined up over that long path of nerves that leads to her quivering nub, then circle the hypersensitive point in lazy concentric circles. Lashing softly over it again and again until she’s moaning and nearly sobbing with the agony of the slow ascent to bliss, then adding a finger...another... and then a third, thrusting in and out of her in time with the frantic pounding of her heart. I increase the speed of my tongue... trace Celtic knots and figure-eights and rings of fire around her flashpoint until her flavor changes... her body signaling another climax... there’s no more mountain for her to climb, and I want to be there, inside her, when she reaches the peak.

The sounds she makes are mind-numbing. Feral growls and feminine grunts... desperate whimpers and ecstatic coos... barely coherent words of love and encouragement... "Angel…GOD, yes, just like that like that like that . . . Harder, right there . . . yes, yes . . . YES! ANGEL!"

I quickly slide up her body, sheathing myself to the hilt inside her just as she starts to come, reaching between us to keep a finger firmly on her clit as I thrust home with a long, shuddering sigh.

Her legs clamp down around my hips and she lets out a screech at my unexpected entry as the first crest of her orgasm takes her. "YES! Oh, God . . . Angel . . . Angelangelangelangel . . " Her hands move to my head and she pulls my face to her so she can maul my mouth as she shakes and shudders uncontrollably, trapped in the clutches of her crisis.

I moan deeply, returning her desperate kisses, clasping both hands beneath her knees to hitch them up higher and give me the deepest, most complete penetration possible. "Oh, God... Buffy... you feel so good..."

"Harder . . ." She pants and moans against my mouth, arching into me, undulating beneath me, consuming me completely, body, heart and soul. "God, Angel, nothing has EVER felt better than this, more, please, more!"

I can feel my fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her hips as I clutch them… I can smell the faint scent of bursting blood vessels as she bruises with the force of my entry. I slow the pace, just a little, stroking in and out of her with long, languid thrusts… trying for slow and gentle, and failing miserably.

She’s just too good… too overwhelming… too heady a feast of sensation for me to even pretend grace and control. There is nothing left of me but need… need to fuse our forms forever… make our bodies as united as our hearts and spirits have always been.

She makes these sounds… soft, feminine grunts, pressing her mouth desperately against me, then moans, deep in her throat. She claws at my back, and this time, the pain is so welcome, adding spice to the onrush of my own orgasm. She screams mindlessly into my mouth, half objection to the slowing of our union, half in appreciation of the sweet agony the long, slow pounding creates.

I smooth my hands down the backs of her thighs, and around to her hips… slip up her waist and caress her breasts, just gazing down at her while this pure, unadulterated miracle washes over us. How could I ever have lived for eternity without this? "I could make love to you forever," I moan, dipping down for a kiss, "It'll never be enough..."

"You should NEVER be OUTSIDE of me again!" she cries, one of her hands moving up to my face, and though she's shaking, she slowly…carefully traces the curve of my brow, my jaw, and then lets her hand flutter down to press against my chest as she throws her head back against the bed, arching her back, her neck, as ecstasy rolls through her body.

My God… I’ve never seen anything so beautiful before in my life.

I turn my face to kiss her blessing palm, "No... God... no never... never... nevernevernever... Buffy... Oh, God... I love you... I love you so much!" My heart is bursting, my soul wailing, my body exploding with this consummation, this completion, this realization of some of my fondest dreams… "BUFFY!"

"I love you, love you, love you, love you, love you." She chants in time with my fierce, frantic, brutal thrusts. She leans her head to the side and bites into my upper arm to muffle the scream as she explodes all around me, her entire body quaking and jerking against me and her tight inner muscles clamp down around me, fluttering intensely, ripping the last of my control away.

I hear myself make a choked, agonized cry as I erupt inside of her, slamming deeply one last time as my pleasure crests. I don’t collapse onto her, this time… instead, I close my eyes and keep slowly thrusting, reveling in the sensation of our secretions stirring together as I return to reality once more.

Buffy leans up and nuzzles her face against the hollow of my throat, countering my uneven thrusts, trying to prolong the moment. Her breathing is labored, and she puffs softly against my skin.

A sigh comes from somewhere deep inside of me as I nestle against her face, claiming her lips for a long, deep kiss, easing my weight down onto my elbows, because I just can’t leave her warmth just yet. I look deeply into her eyes, kiss the tip of her nose, and give her a smile that I hope conveys even a hundredth of what I’m feeling. "So… Was the teasing worth it?"

She mewls, and with a surprising burst of energy, knocks my elbows out from beneath me so my full weight rests on top of her. If she wasn’t the Slayer, no doubt she’d be squashed.

"Oof!" I chuckle, and wrap her in my arms. "I'm going to take that as a yes." I nip at the edges of her ear for a few minutes. I’m so overcome with all of this… these sensations once so taboo. Perfect. Happiness. Completion. Peace. All the rest of the world… our harsh realities… our Destinies… All fall away, sweetly obliterated by the calming of her heartbeat, the slowing of her breath. I whisper, "God, love... you're so amazing. I never thought..." Before I can complete my thought, I get a look at the disaster area the room has become. "Huh." Must be the aftermath of the Agatoire’s feeding. I almost laugh. Probably the best meal of his life, considering the amount of sexual tension Buffy and I have managed to build up over the years.

"Never thought what?" She mumbles against my shoulder as she snuggles against me contentedly. Her arms slip around my shoulders, her legs around my waist, creating a cocoon of warmth and love for me.

This is where I want to be when I finally leave this world.

I pull away just enough to look at her, "I never thought we'd be together like this again."

She gives me a teary-eyed smile. "Me neither. But . . ." She turns her head away, "I hoped. I hoped even when I thought I didn't know how anymore."

I claim her little chin in my hand and turn her face toward mine, and give her a loving, intimate smile, and then a brief kiss. "I did too."

And I did. No matter how I denied it. No matter how hard I tried to pretend that I had let her go… I never did. I realize it now as that locked box marked with her name in my heart bursts open, and eight years of repression rushes forth.

Buffy crawls on top of me and spreads herself out over my body, a precious blanket of bliss. She nuzzles her face against my throat, and I feel her body melting into relaxation, preparing to drift off to sleep. "This is the best place in the world," she sighs.

I envelop her tightly in my arms… ((godshefeelssogoodthereI’llneverlethergoagain Iswearthankyougod,thankyou…)), and brush a kiss to the sweat-dampened top of her head. "It is. Sweet dreams, Buffy. I love you."

She snuggles into me with a contented little coo, and when I look down, I find that she’s already asleep.

I let my eyes drift close, my own sated exhaustion finally getting the best of me. There are so many things to think about… talk about… work through… decide… 

But for now, there is only this. Myself… my beloved… the solace of her soft, vital body encircling mine… the muskysweet scent of our lovemaking in the air. The humid, honeysuckle heat of the Louisiana night…

And the joy that this time… true contentment will heal us. No monsters unleashed on the world. No guilt, no regret…

Just the two of us, and the incredible power of what we create together. Power that saved my soul…and that will someday save the world.

~

For a moment when I wake, I hesitate to open my eyes… I don’t want this dream sensation to leave… the phantom memory of her body in my arms, her scent on my skin… It’s so hard to wake from those vivid dreams of her… those subconscious reminders of all the things I struggle so hard to deny in the light of day, because the wanting of them is too much to bear. This is my time… when I’m both conscious enough to appreciate these dreamvisions… but unconscious enough still to feel her… see and taste and smell and touch her.

I know… when I open my eyes, she’ll be gone… and my already-scarred heart will shatter yet again.

But… I do open my eyes, and… 

It’s NOT a dream. I glance down and discover there's a real, live Buffy in my arms. 

I’m utterly frozen by the realization. We slept face to face, our noses almost touching, arms and legs entwined, as though we really had been bound together by our passionate coupling. I pull back just enough to watch her sleeping for a while. I don’t want to disturb her badly-needed rest… but she's so beautiful, and I’m so happy…I can't resist the urge to reach up to touch her face... brush a little kiss to her full lips...

She shifts, waking like a fairy princess with the caress. She smiles against my mouth and pulls her body closer still, sighing happily. "You're real."

I keep kissing her, suckling first her upper, then lower lip gently between my own. "So it would appear. Although... this moment does have some very dreamlike qualities..."

"If it is a dream, *never* wake me up," she insists, her hands in my hair, and she's already practically climbing on top of me, trying to get closer still. The light blanket that had covered us slowly inches down until it barely covers the tangle of our legs.

I push what little of it remains so there's not an speck of her skin denied me. I run my hands down her back as we begin kissing again, smoothing over her soft rear, pulling her lower body tightly against me. I feel myself start to purr… a sound of perfect contentment I haven’t made… since before I regained my soul. "Remain in dream world. Check," I whisper, and mean it. Recommencing the kissing.

"You know…before I was Called, I never would have imagined that my fondest dream would be to never leave a demon's bed," She murmurs into my mouth. Her leg is slung casually over my hip as she peppers my face with little kisses.

Those tiny pecks immediately rekindled the fire inside me that had banked while she was sleeping. Without warning, I flip us over, pinning her beneath me, thunderstruck by how good it feels to be able to *play* with her. Have fun together, like this... and...oh yeah, the fact that I’m dominating this powerful woman… the Slayer, no less -- certainly doesn’t hurt. I growl, "Before you were called, I doubt you even believed in demons." I bend down to nip at her lips.

She moans. "After I was Called, then. Before I met you." She bites back at my mouth. "I certainly never thought I'd *want* a vampire anywhere near my neck . . ." 

My mouth moves to her throat… where I *know* I’m welcome, as the instant increase in her arousal attests. "And now?"

"Now . . .Ah . . . I want . . . Ah… Ang…Angel!" 

"This?" I lave a long line down her jugular.

"Yessss . . . and . . . " Her wrists are trapped above her head, and she flexes her hands in a futile attempt to regain her precious sense of control. "More . . . I want more . . ."

I push her arms down a little more tightly against the mattress, grind my pelvis into hers, and nibble teasingly at her neck with blunt teeth. "That?"

"More." She groans, her entire body thrusting against mine, her legs curling up to encircle my waist. "Angel, you know what I . . . ah . . . want . . you always . . . know . . . please . . "

I feel my features change, and look down at her... flashing a little fang, loving this tender hunt, licking my lips in reverent hunger. "Tell me, Buffy. Tell me what you want."

"Bite . . . bite medrinkmetakemePLEASE!" She rants, begging… arching her back and baring her neck for to me…

I’ve never seen anything so erotic. I snarl instinctively and open my jaws wide to take her, diving for her neck, and…

The door to her room -- or what's left of it -- bursts open, ripping completely off its hinges at last, and Wesley comes plunging inside with a crossbow trained straight at my exposed back. "UNHAND HER, FIEND!"

Buffy and I both freeze. I turn slowly to look at him. "Wesley... what are you doing?"

My supposed "friend" isn’t interested in what I have to say at all. His frightened gaze is nailed directly to Buffy, who lies, inert in shock beneath me. "Has he harmed you, Buffy? Are you still. . . Buffy?"

Oh, for God’s sake. Does he really think that Angelus would bother taking the time to strip her *naked* before he murdered her in cold blood? The monster was willing to get the *world* sucked into Hell, rather than have to take her on face to face.

A moment later, Cordy stumbles into the room. She takes the scene in quickly, the way someone used to walking into bizarre situations is wont to do... sees Wesley and his crossbow... sees me in game face... sees Buffy trapped beneath me, her arms pinned over her head... and starts screaming. "OH MY GOD NOT AGAIN!!!!"

You know, you would think after all this time, that my family would have gained a little bit more faith in my resolve and resilience. I was celibate for a hundred years before I met Buffy! They don’t think I can hold out for three days in the face of a powerful lust demon?

Right. Never mind.

Gunn and Giles arrive next ((were they all out partying together? It’s got to be almost dawn, and speaking of Dawn where is SHE? And Spike?)), scrambling in response to Cordelia’s screaming. Both men come fully armed - Gunn with his homemade axe, and Giles with yet another crossbow.

There is a downside to having a well-armed, highly trained, dedicated and deadly force for good as a family.

Gunn moans when he gets a good look at us. "Aww, man... I *knew* this was gonna happen!" He turns to Wes. "What are you waitin' for? SHOOT HIM!"

Buffy jerks out of her stunned daze below me. "NO! Don't shoot him!"

It suddenly occurs to me -- this could get really out of hand. I put my hands up in surrender, and quickly shift back to human features. "It's fine, guys... I'm fine."

Buffy maneuvers her body out from beneath me, putting herself squarely between me and our frightened friends. Her arms come out to her sides, her tiny form shielding my heart.

"You’ll have to shoot me first," she informs them sternly.

If I wasn’t currently in fear for my unlife, I would probably be deeply touched by her gesture.

Cordy points at us, squealing, "He...He's doing that thrall thing on her!"

"There is no thrall! One time there was thrall, and do I ever hear the end of it?" Buffy cries, clearly exasperated.

Wesley laments, "How could you do this? How could the two of you give in to your baser lusts, knowing the cost? How could you unleash this… this MONSTER on the world yet AGAIN!?"

Very, very slowly, I move Buffy out of the way, and climb to my feet, still holding my hands up as a gesture of surrender. "Wesley, it's me. I swear, I'm still fully souled. We wouldn’t have… done this otherwise. I’m fine, I promise."

Cordy has completely lost it. Which, again, is heartwarming in a twisted, psychotically wrong sort of way. She screams hysterically, "NOYOU'RENOTOKAYYOUCAN’TBEOKAYYOU'RE ****NAKED!!!!!**** WITH ****BUFFY!!!!****"

Giles has been observing the whole scene with cool caution and skepticism. As usual, though, he doesn’t want to take any chances with his Slayer’s ((his daughter’s)) life. "Well, how nice for you, Angel. We've luckily averted disaster, then. Buffy, get dressed and come with me."

And things just keep getting worse. Xander and his blunt-mouthed girlfriend Anya enter. "Jeez, Queen C., I can hear you down the hall, what, did you break a -- OH MY GOD MY EYES!" 

The ex-demon’s eyes roam over my nudity appreciatively.

Cordy shrieks in response, "SCREW your eyes! We're all going to DIE!"

I look down at myself sheepishly, and shrug, rolling my eyes at this display of hysterics. "No one is going to die."

"We're *not* going to die," Buffy repeats, "Unless *I* kill you."

Then she too remembers that she's naked, and finally thinks wraps the sheet that had just been tangled in our legs around her body. She kindly tosses me a blanket, and I give her an ironic smile in thanks.

Wesley doesn’t lower his weapon. "Prove to me that you’re not Angelus."

Gunn looks at me closely, frowning a little. "Hold up... he still looks like Angel to me..."

"Gee, that couldn’t possibly be because he *is* Angel?" Buffy barks.

I sigh and wrap the blanket around my waist, holding it closed with one hand, while still holding up the other. Wouldn’t want them to think I was reaching for my FANGS. 

Anya appraises me once more. "I liked it better without the blanket. Take it off."

"Ahn!" Harris objects.

"If you're still Angel," Wesley hisses, "Then please tell me why this room, and ours, are in the condition that they are? Why are the doors of *both* our rooms destroyed, as though broken down?"

Buffy blushes. "We had a. . . a thing. And . . .we solved it. But . . .there was some . . ." Her gaze darts to mine desperately. "Structural damage."

"Look, it's a long story... if everybody would just calm down..." I encourage.

"I can't be calm when my LIFE is on the line!" Harris cries out.

He’s just itching to see me dust. I finally lose my patience. "NOBODY'S LIFE IS ON THE LINE!" I glance at the crossbow. "Except maybe mine."

Gunn grins. " 'Bout time you got some, big guy..."

Cordy GLARES at her lover. "You SO don't know what this means! This isn’t just ‘oh, yay, Angel got laid’, you know!"

Before we can address the matter further, Dawn and Spike enter. Looking worse for the night’s wear. Dawn is rumpled, her hair tangled, and Spike is obviously drunk.

"What's this, then?" he snarks, taking in Buffy and my proximity and state of dress. "Oh, *great*. The psychotic bastard is on his way."

I give him a withering glare. "You're gonna want to keep your mouth shut, BOY."

"Yeah, and who's gonna make me? You? Fluffy over here will have your evil, murdering ass staked in seconds."

I shout at them, hoping it’ll get through their thick heads. "I'm not EVIL!"

"Nobody is staking Angel's ass," Buffy tells them, then turns to Dawn, backing me up like the best damned compadre on the face of the planet. Have I mentioned that I love her? "He's not evil."

Dawn bellows at Buffy, "You *slept* with Angel?! How *could* you?!"

"Dawn, it's okay, nothing bad is going to--" Buffy tries to counter.

The youngest Summers is having none of it. "You HYPOCRITE! So it's okay for YOU to sleep with a vampire because you love him, but not for me? At least MINE won’t go out and murder hundreds of people in cold BLOOD because we made love!"

Et tu, Dawn?

Wesley inspects me carefully... skeptically.

Spike glowers at us. "You know, it's not like it's my *fault* I'm evil. Matter of fact, I think it’s pretty fair to say my evil is completely *your* fault."

I glare right back at him. "*I* certainly didn’t Sire your worthless ass."

"Maybe not. But you *did* Sire our Dru, and you *did* encourage her to make herself a mate, right?"

Cordelia interrupts, "Wait. Wait wait wait wait. You are both naked. He," she gestures to me, "was very apparently getting some Perfect Happiness. And you just expect us to believe you're not evil?"

"*Yes*!" I bark indignantly.

Willow and Tara enter the room. Well... the gang’s all here. What fun.

Willow’s eyes go wide as she looks over the scene. "Yikes. Um . . . hey. We're not about all to die horrible deaths or anything, are we?"

Oh, for God’s sake...

"NO!" Buffy and I shout in unison.

Willow backs away. "Jeez, just checkin'. I mean... you know... with the naked..." she looks around the room. "And the minor disaster area..."

Soft-spoken Tara, who I’ve always liked a great deal, by the way, asks calmly, "Wh-what happened?"

Xander gestures emphatically to Buffy and I. "They had The Sex!"

Wesley finally completes his inspection, and appears satisfied enough to set the crossbow down. "It would appear, however, that despite their intimate relations, Angel still has his soul." His expression shifts from defensive anger to a mild wonder. "How is that... how is such a thing possible?"

The entire room goes silent, everyone waiting intently on my response. I really wish I had clothes on. It’s so difficult to make an important speech wearing a peach paisley comforter.

I look around slowly at each of the confused, worried faces. Honestly, I’m really not sure the story is going to satisfy them. I take a deep breath and stand up straight, and try to pretend I don’t look like a complete moron... or maybe some crazed lunatic, my body covered with rapidly healing bites, gouges, and scratches, my hair no doubt all over the damn place, like I stuck my finger in a light socket. "It's a really long story. Why don't we all just go to bed, and talk about it tomorrow?" 

((pleasegothefuckawayI’mnotgoingtoeatanybodyexceptBuffyandIcan’tdothatwithallofy oustandingtherestaringatme))

Gunn snorts at my suggestion, and takes a defensive step back from Cordy, who takes an offensive step toward me, her hands perched on her hips.

"Oh NO. NO! You're going to tell us how this isn't the End of the World As We Know It, and you're going to tell us NOW. I am SO not going to bed and having nightmares tonight!" She swings to glare at Buffy. "And YOU! God, I knew you were SELFISH, but how could you DO THIS TO HIM?"

Giles heads over to the minibar and removes a bottle of scotch, mumbling, "Should have stayed in England, never needed to witness *this* horror again . . ."

Spike immediately follows him. "Don't bogart the scotch, Rup."

Gunn wanders over to join them. He declines their offer of a drink, nodding back toward the rest of us. "You know, I heard this was a soap opera, but... man..."

Spike chuckles. "Oh, yeah, it's bloody ‘As the World Blindly Stumbles’ over there with those two."

I can’t take this crap anymore. I *know* they’re scared and upset, and I *know* that this looks really bad. But have I made even one small move to rip even one minor limb off any one of their bodies, yet? NO! You would think that would be proof enough, and maybe they could just accept it and leave Buffy and I to our desperately earned reunion.

Especially Cordelia. She’s known me the best and the longest of almost any of them. It’s her anger that hurts me the most. "You know what? I've had about enough of your attitude. I realize that the Agatoire's made everyone jumpy, but I'm NOT taking your abuse anymore! And I'm certainly not letting you rain it down on BUFFY!"

Cordy's eyes get wider and wider with every word I say. Wow, it feels good to stand up to her.

Buffy has finally had enough. "Okay, THAT'S IT! Everybody OUT! No more yelling, no more saying things we don't mean, we will talk to you all *tomorrow*." She's standing on her knees on the bed, trying to look fierce, even as she’s desperately clutching to keep her sheet secured.

Wesley sighs. "She's right. Things are obviously fine, here, and none of us are in the right frame of mind to understand any possible explanation anyway."

Willow frowns at her best friend. "Buffy, are you sure you're all right?"

Cordelia fairly GLOWERS at me, then Buffy, then me again. But before she can incite round two, Gunn claims her and drags her out of the room, sharing a Knowing Grin with me as they exit.

At least *one* person is happy for us.

Buffy sighs. "I'm *fine*, Will. Talk to you tomorrow. With details. Go." When no one else moves, she yelps, "Why are there still people here?!"

Wesley gives her a sheepish smile. "My apologies, Buffy... we saw the door, and we thought..."

One by one, the rest file out. Buffy snatches Spike by the scruff of his neck before he can escape. "You know you're finding a room that isn't my sister's to sleep in tonight, *right*?"

Spike sullenly doesn't answer. Buffy looks up to Wesley. "The thought is appreciated, Wes. Thanks." She smiles at him genuinely, then glares back down at the vampire again. "*Right*?!"

"Yeah, yeah, *right* . . . I'll stay outside 'til sunup, then kick your girl out of the room so I can conk out, all right?" he concedes with uncharacteristic wisdom. He squirms out of her grasp and hurries out the door before I can grab him. Giles props the door back on its hinges so it's vaguely shut, and gives us an embarrassed little wave. 

I breathe an audible sigh of relief. Alone at last.

I give Buffy an ironic smirk. "Well. That couldn't have gone better if I scripted it myself."

Her sheet slips a little as she sighs, and she hurriedly pulls it back up, though now it's just sort of clutched to her chest, rather than wrapped around her, and she's clearly deeply embarrassed at having been caught in such a compromising position.

But I’m not.

"I would have deleted a few of the supporting players," she grumbles.

I move back over to stand in front of where she's kneeling, take possession of the sheet and give it a tug. "They're gone now, and it suddenly occurs to me that you're not nearly naked enough."

I think I like this demon magick. It makes being distracted from unpleasant things so much more... pleasant.

The sheet slides and away and she eyes the blanket I’m still wearing, raising a brow at me. "Planning to ravish me in paisley?"

I grin and strike a pose. "It sort of suits me, don't you think? The peach brings out my eyes."

She laughs, full and hearty, the previous scene’s discomfort forgotten. "Actually, I like what you were wearing earlier, better." Without warning, she tackles me, tossing the blanket aside as we tumble to the floor, with her landing on top. I’m starting to think she likes it this way. 

Not that I mind

I laugh, thrusting up against her, giving her a hungry leer. "Now..." I let my features shift again, claiming the back of her neck and pulling her down to me. "Where were we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, I'm afraid, is that! Sorry to leave you hanging, but at least they got to the smut. Please feel free to yell, freak out, or otherwise berate us for never finishing.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed what there was, though!

**Author's Note:**

> We had entirely too much fun writing this over long, rambling, all night MIM sessions. We hope you liked reading it as much as we LOVED writing it. It started as an excuse to write smut, and as more and more disturbing spoilers and rumors about the new seasons came out, it very quickly became therapy. So UNRELENTING ROMANTIC MUSH ABOUNDS!


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